


I can live today (if you give me tomorrow)

by congratsyouvegrownasoul



Series: Nina/Oleg fix it fic [1]
Category: The Americans (TV 2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Class Issues, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Historical References, Kid Fic, Meet the Family, Slow Burn, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-04-17 20:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/congratsyouvegrownasoul/pseuds/congratsyouvegrownasoul
Summary: One little thing changes Nina’s life, and her relationship with Oleg. Anything’s better than prison, of course, but life among the Soviet elite is still an adjustment.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the scene where Oleg’s father visits Nina in prison, I was so enraged that I promptly started writing fix it fic. This opening chapter is a rewrite of that scene, with one little change that has huge repercussions. 
> 
> Other notes: I am a history major specializing in the Soviet Union (although my focus is earlier than this story’s setting) and a Russian Studies minor, so this fic is very much a labor of love for me, and I’ve had a lot of fun doing research to make sure the details and the setting are as accurate as possible. I hope the story feels rich because of this, and that I also managed to do a good job with the characters as well as historical nerding. I’m also currently studying abroad in Moscow—although I wasn’t when I started writing this, but some of my observations of the city might bleed over into the text. 
> 
> Also, since I took a hiatus from the series to write this, so I wouldn’t have to watch Nina get killed, I haven’t seen the later episodes with more detail about Oleg’s family. My portrayal of the Burovs, therefore, is largely my own invention. 
> 
> Also, the title of the fic comes from “As Long As You Follow” by Fleetwood Mac. This song postdates my fic, since it was released in 1988, but it fit the story very well.
> 
> Thanks to AO3 user siddals for reading and advising everything I’ve written so far. You’ve been a huge help!
> 
> I hope the (small but hopefully mighty) Nina/Oleg fandom will enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Nina doesn’t know why she’s been taken out of her cell. They only let her out for a guarded walk in the courtyard every other day, and today’s not one of them. It’s a Tuesday, she thinks. It would be the fourth Tuesday she’s spent in this prison. Her plane arrived in Moscow on a Sunday, her trial was on Wednesday, and by Friday she was here. Before that, she’d awaited trial in a holding cell in the basement of the Lubyanka building. She prefers it here in the Lefortovo, but only marginally. There are fewer ghosts.

It is November by now. Brezhnev is dead—she heard the guards talking about it when they changed shifts a few days ago. It is not a surprise, but Nina still feels a bizarre pang of grief. He had been General Secretary for almost her entire life. She remembers huddling around the radio in the communal kitchen of her family’s apartment building, listening attentively to his speeches on Victory Day and the anniversary of the Great October Socialist Revolution. She also remembers the rush of nervous excitement that flooded over her the first time she heard a biting joke at their leader’s expense. She had half-screamed with laughter and then sputtered to a stop, earning a scathing glance from the older schoolgirl who had made the comment. She’d lain awake that night in bed, feeling an odd mix of guilt, fear, and recurring amusement. It had been a small rebellion—even in her anxious girlhood nightmares, she never would have thought she would be in prison for treason.

The guard silently leads her to the room they use when a prisoner has visitors. Nina’s parents had come from Kazan the week after her trial. They were only allowed an hour, and told her they weren’t sure if they’d be given permission to do it again, or if they could afford the train tickets. Nina and her father had both cried. Her mother, ever the more ardent communist of the two, had mostly sat in stony silence. She had tried to explain the situation—how she had been a double agent, how the operation had failed, how she’d been punished. She hadn’t mentioned her relationships with Stan or Oleg. Those feelings were still too raw.

Her parents had known about her luxury-goods racket—her father had been selling off the electronics she’d smuggled back to Kazan on her holiday break, and while her mother had initially disapproved, she’d appreciated the jazz records Nina had brought her, and the warm new coats and black-market meat and spices they’d been able to buy with the money from the stereos. But she hadn’t told them about Stan’s blackmail, or her confession to Arkady. They knew about her promotion, of course, but she’d told them it was recognition of her hard work and capable management skills. They’d been so proud of her, and it wasn’t technically a lie.

When the heavy door to the visiting room creaks open, Nina is, perhaps, expecting to see her parents again. Who else would it be?

Instead, she’s faced by a slim, nondescript stranger in an understated if expensive suit.

“Who are you?” Nina asks, although she suspects the answer. There aren’t that many middle-aged bureaucrats who would be interested in her case.

“I'm the Minister of Railways. You can call me Igor Pavlovich.”

Of course, she knows who else he is. Oleg’s father gestures for her to take a seat, and she sinks into the chair, hands clenched nervously in her lap. He sits across from her, slouching in a way that reminds her uncomfortably of his son.

“I can see why Oleg fell for you,” Igor Pavlovich remarks dispassionately. His gaze is clinical rather than lascivious, but she still feels exposed.

“How is he?”

She has thought often about Oleg in the last month. If he’s lonely, without her. If he resents her, for trusting Stan Beeman loved her enough not to betray her, for not taking his money and running. Sometimes, she wonders if he has already forgotten her.

Clearly not, though, if his father is here to see her. Maybe even here to help.

“You're worried about him?” For the first time, a fleck of emotion slips into Igor Pavlovich’s grey voice. It’s no more than mild surprise, but it’s something. It is strange, she thinks, when Oleg is so full of life.

Nina wonders why he’s surprised. Did he not think she loved Oleg? Or is he merely disbelieving that she, in prison, would worry about Oleg, still safe and untouchable in his cushy job.

“Not worried, I just want to know.”

She has missed him, after all, even more than she had expected, especially given what she’s recently come to realize.

Igor Pavlovich sighs.

“He's taking this hard.”

Nina can’t tell whether he’s exasperated—poor foolish Oleg, pining over a traitor—or concerned for his son. She hopes it’s the latter.

“You have no children?”

It’s a surprising question—perhaps, he will tell her, she can’t understand. He has to prioritize Oleg, of course, make sure his precious son isn’t tainted by her crimes.

Nina clenches her fists, feeling a rush of anger. It’s that anger that loosens her tongue, makes her throw all her metaphorical cards out on the table.

“I’m going to have your son’s baby,” she blurts.

Finally, she’s cracked his cold exterior. Igor Pavlovich jolts upright, his face jerking involuntarily.

“ _Excuse_ me?”

Nina nods frantically. “I’m pregnant. Two months, I think.”

She ought to have had her period right before the Echo operation, but she’d been so anxious and busy that she’d barely noticed she was late. She’d begun to feel nauseous shortly after she’d arrived in prison, but of course she’d assumed it was just nerves.

She supposes she hadn’t wanted to believe it, at first. Growing up, she’d heard horror stories in hushed whispers, rumors that a quiet, withdrawn neighborhood babushka had given birth in a gulag camp, and the baby, fathered by a camp guard, had died.

Of course, that was decades ago, and in many, many ways Nina is better off than that poor woman. Still, though, she had kept her secret to herself. She could ask to go to the prison doctor and get a pregnancy test, but that would make it real in a way that she wasn’t prepared to deal with yet.

Now, though, it is out in the open, her words hanging heavily in the air between her and Igor Pavlovich, and she’s not sure whether she regrets saying anything. Still, though, this might be her best chance at getting out, so she’ll push it for all it’s worth.

Igor Pavlovich steeples his fingers together on top of the rickety table, struggling to regain his composure.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Nina lies. She’s almost certain, but desperate enough to ignore the chance that she’s wrong.

“And how do you know Oleg is the father?”

His tone is suspicious.

“What about this...this FBI agent, Beeman? Did you think I wouldn’t read your file? Or, who knows, some other man?”

Nina narrows her eyes at him.

“Agent Beeman told me he got a vasectomy ten years ago. And there was no one else.”

Even if he’d been lying about that too, Stan had spent less time with her in the weeks before the Echo operation, busy with work and fixating on his wife’s own affair. Meanwhile, she’d spent most of her free time in bed with Oleg. Nina isn’t sure that Igor Pavlovich would want to hear that, though, and she certainly doesn’t want to tell him.

“Still,” Igor Pavlovich grumbles. “The timing is awfully convenient.”

Nina’s bottom lip trembles, her eyes filling with tears. It’s not hard to be sad, scared, and vulnerable, and maybe it will make him more sympathetic to her plight.

“Please, can you just tell Oleg? I want him to know. I didn’t realize before I had to leave. I wish...I wish I could tell him myself, but…”

If Oleg knows, she has a chance. She can tell that Igor Pavlovich is reluctant to concede to her, reluctant to help her. But Oleg has clearly been in contact with his father, has pushed him to visit her, has been quite possibly pouring out his feelings over the telephone. Nina is no one to the exalted Comrade Burov, Minister of Railways, just a pretty girl in a bad situation and a most inappropriate lover for his son. But as the mother of his grandchild, she might have some degree of power, and Oleg has further ammunition to fight for her.

Igor Pavlovich sighs.

“My son is a soft, spoiled child. Getting involved with you was a mistake, and he’s certainly not ready for the responsibilities of fatherhood. Oleg might decide it would be prudent to forget you and focus on his career.”

Nina thinks of Oleg, with his bright mind and gentle hands, the curiosity and passion and steel under his coddled playboy exterior. She thinks of the way he looks at her in the mornings, still sleepy-eyed, their legs fitting together in a perfect tangle under the sheets.

“With all due respect, Igor Pavlovich, if you think that, you don’t know Oleg very well at all.”

His eyebrows arch upwards, and she wonders if she’s gone too far.

“How touching,” he says, voice laced with dry sarcasm. “I’m sure you’ve come to care for him very much over a few short months--or at least the advantages he can give you.”

Nina flushes.

“I do love him,” she says defiantly. “As he loves me.”

Stan had said he loved her too, of course. But it was different with Oleg, wasn’t it? They understood each other, listened to each other, trusted each other.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

Igor Pavlovich pushes back his chair and rises, frowning.

“Well, you have certainly given me a lot to think about.”

Nina jumps hastily to her feet as well.

“Please--”

He holds up a hand, cutting her off before she even knows what she’s planning on saying.

“I am not making any promises regarding your situation. But I will tell my son what you’ve told me. He does have a right to know.”

Nina finds her face breaking into a small smile, feeling a wave of gratitude rush over her despite herself, despite the fact that this is barely anything at all. She finds that her hands are shaking.

“Thank you for that.”

He is already heading towards the door, but he pauses before he leaves, turning back halfway to look at her.

“I’ll have your rations increased. I’m not a cruel man, Nina Sergeyevna. Your baby doesn’t deserve to be punished for your betrayal of the motherland.”


	2. Chapter 2

The phone rings at five minutes to eight, and Oleg snatches up the receiver before it can reach the second ring.

He’s been up since half past five, too nervous to sleep. Knowing that his father would see Nina today made his stomach churn. It’s the end of the work day in Moscow, and just before the beginning of his here in Washington. He’s been alternately pacing around the room and sprawled across his bed, compulsively twisting a pillow in his hands, waiting for the expected call. In the last hour, he’s anxiously bolted down three cups of tea and half a teacup of vodka, in lieu of breakfast in the Rezidentura cafeteria. He didn’t want to miss the call.

“Hello? This is Oleg Igorevich Burov.”

Of course, if someone’s gone through the Rezidentura switchboard to get his private line, they already know who he is, but it’s just habit at this point.

“Oleg. Good morning, I suppose, where you are.” His father’s voice is crisp and familiar.

“How is Nina?” Oleg asks urgently, discarding the pleasantries. “Did you see her? Is she okay?”

“She seems...in reasonably good health.”

“What about emotionally? She’s a brave person, but she still must feel so scared and alone. I wish I could see her.”

“Oleg…”

His father’s voice is suddenly, surprisingly, hesitant. It almost sounds as if he’s trying to soften the blow of bad news.

“What is it? Did something happen to her? Has anyone been rough with her? I swear, if anything--”

“No, nothing like that. It’s just, well…”

He clears his throat loudly in Oleg’s ear.

“She told me that she’s pregnant.”

Oleg chokes.

“What?!”

“I took the liberty of having her sent to the prison clinic and tested to make sure. She’s about two months along, apparently. She claims it’s yours, of course, but personally I have my doubts.”

“I know it’s mine,” Oleg blurts. He doesn’t for sure, but it’s what Nina needs.

“We, um, didn’t always use protection.”

They’d only slipped up once or twice, really, but the less doubts his father has, the better.

“What were you _thinking_? Do you know what a prize you are to a girl like that, even before she got arrested?”

“Papa, Nina loves me. She’s not manipulative like that, not really. She wasn’t trying to get anything out of me--certainly not a baby.”

“She’s not manipulative, this pretty little spy? What about Beeman? I’m sure he thought she wasn’t using him as well.”

“That’s different,” Oleg says angrily. “He didn’t love her like I do! Stan Beeman forced Nina into spying for him in the first place, and then he betrayed her, and he didn’t care about her getting hurt! He’s a selfish, lying prick, and--”

“Watch yourself, Oleg. He might be an enemy of the motherland, but I can’t fault his decision. Beeman chose his country over a girl. I hope you would do the same.”

“Papa, you don’t understand. The Americans, they think we are monsters! Their president openly despises our state. They think communists are all like Stalin. As far as he knows, Beeman could have been condemning Nina to execution, or torture! And he did not fucking _care_!”

“You’re getting hysterical,” his father says calmly.

“Of course I am! My girlfriend, who is _having my baby_ , is in prison, because nobody understands that she tried to make up for her mistakes, and you won’t even think about helping us! Even though I’ve been begging you!”

“Oleg, that’s not fair. I have thought about it.”

“Well, think about it some more! Me and Nina’s baby is your family, and that makes Nina family too. Do you think if Mama was in prison and pregnant with me and your father could get her out, he’d have hesitated?”

“For once in your life, Oleg, shut your mouth! Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

Oleg winces, but holds his tongue, fuming.

“Even if I wanted to help her, I’m not completely sure I could. I’m sure our new General Secretary doesn’t want to be bothered with the fallout from your poor romantic choices during his first week in office. ”

Oleg grimaces at the insult, glad this conversation is taking place over the telephone rather than in person.

“Papa, Yuri Vladimirovich is your friend! He knows me. Maybe he’d be more inclined to do you a favor than you think.”

“Yes, I’m sure he’ll be so forgiving of someone who spied on the KGB right under his nose.”

“Nina hardly gave away any important information! And she did much more for us than for them! At least try it, please.”

His father sighs.

“Your mother wants me to ask him as well, you know. She told me how you’ve been calling her, all tearful over your Nina. She’s always been too indulgent with you, because she can’t bear it when you’re upset.”

“Well, apparently you can!”

“Don’t be melodramatic, Oleg. I don’t like to watch you suffer either. I just wish you could get over this girl.”

“Do you want me to get over the mother of my child? What kind of self-centered coward would I be if I didn’t stand up for her? If I didn’t protect her?”

“All right,” his father grumbles begrudgingly. “I see your point.”

Oleg decides to go for flattery. “Papa, you’ve always provided for me--for all of us. I want to do the same for my family. How can I if you let Nina stay in prison?”

“I suppose it’s admirable that you want to make the best out of a bad situation, but I’ll remind you that I married your mother before we had you boys. And both of you were planned. You’ve not acted responsibly so far, and I’m not especially confident your plans for the future are wise.”

“I would marry Nina! If she’ll have me, I mean. And our baby is going to be loved, and taken care of. I’m not a child anymore, Papa. I’ve been working hard this past year, serving the motherland--not just playing around in America. I’ve done things by myself, been involved with operations, taken initiative. Arkady Ivanovich respects me now, and he’s not a flatterer. I’m not incompetent.”

There’s a long pause. His father sighs heavily.

“I know that. I’ve read all the reports from your operations working Beeman. They are reasonably impressive. I just wish you would focus more on your promising career and not throw yourself away on this girl because of a youthful infatuation.”

“I wouldn’t be ‘throwing myself away’, and I’m not infatuated. It’s not something casual with Nina, it’s more real than anything I’ve ever felt.”

Oleg feels his cheeks flush, unused to talking about his personal feelings with his father. But he has to prove that Nina is worthy of intervention.

“Nina is amazing--she’s so smart, so resilient, and she’s good. She has a caring heart. She’s not this femme fatale you’re thinking of, not at all. Papa, please, please talk to the General Secretary about this. I know you can help us. I know it!”

Another pause. Another sigh.

“I suppose I will see what I can do. You and your mother will never let me rest otherwise.”

Oleg grins, rocking back against the headboard of his bed in excitement. His hand, clutching the telephone receiver like a lifeline, is shaking with released tension.

“Thank you, Papa! I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I hope not.”

Oleg rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“Well, goodbye, then,” his father says gruffly.

“Goodbye! I love you,” Oleg blurts.

“You too.”

The phone line clicks, and the dial tone sounds.

Oleg slams down the receiver, and flings himself back onto the bed, spread-eagled. He feels proud and victorious, heart full of love for Nina and excitement at her prospective release.

After a minute or so, though, the other reality starts to sink in--that he’s going to be a father. The prospect is both terrifying and exhilarating. Nina’s pregnancy still feels rather abstract, remote. It’s been leverage to use in his argument with his father, all theoretical. But it’s not, of course. It’s huge, and it will change his life, even more than Nina already has.

Now, though, he’s going to be late for work. Oleg pulls himself up from the bed, resolving to head straight for Arkady’s office and report on the new development. Arkady will probably offer him a brandy, he thinks, to congratulate him. Oleg’s been drinking rather too heavily over the past month, because of the stress, but he could use some extra fire in his blood right now. This whole conversation has left him feeling shaky, almost whiplashed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments on the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy getting a little bit of Oleg. Hats off to the small but mighty fandom :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oleg confronts Stan before returning to Moscow.

As Oleg pulls his car into Stan Beeman’s moderately affluent little suburb, he notices all the Christmas decorations adorning yards. It’s only the first week of December, but colored lights already wind their winking way around bushes and mailboxes. Some houses even have jaunty reindeer statues or sanctimonious nativity scenes positioned prominently in their yards.

Oleg’s family, of course, does not celebrate Christmas, but they have a fine fir tree every New Year’s, all hung with bright lights and shining glass ornaments, just like American families. To Oleg, New Year’s means a big spread of chilled salads and caviar on their dining room table, champagne at midnight, and fireworks in Red Square.

The public commercialization of American holidays baffles him, though. There are cardboard cutouts of chubby-cheeked Santa Clauses in half the stores in downtown Washington already, and his favorite radio station has switched over to holiday music. He had the obnoxious song about the red-nosed Rudolf stuck in his head for two days straight last week. It is very American, this bizarre combination of God-bothering and the capitalist crush for acquisition.

Stan Beeman’s house, Oleg notes as he pulls up outside, looks rather pathetic compared to its neighbors. There’s merely an obviously fake holly wreath pinned up on the front door.

One of Beeman’s neighbors is putting up his own Christmas lights across the street. The man stops to stare over at Oleg, noticing the diplomatic plates on his car. Oleg gives him a stiff nod, and Beeman’s neighbor responds with an awkward, embarrassed half-wave.

Oleg makes a beeline for Beeman’s front door. He’d been wracked with nerves the last time he’d confronted the FBI agent, but this time there’s a jaunty spring in his step. He rings the doorbell a few times, then bangs on the door with his fist for good measure.

Beeman opens the door halfway, sees Oleg, and then tries to close the door on him. Oleg shoves his foot in the gap, leaning on the doorframe.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

_Not physically, anyway._

“Then what the hell do you want?”

“I have news. I thought you should know. Nina is going to be released from prison.”

Some of the tension in Beeman’s body releases, and he opens the door a little further.

“When?”

“Later this week. I fly to Moscow tomorrow. My father’s convinced General Secretary Andropov to pardon her. The charges are still on her record, unfortunately, but she’ll be free.”

Beeman actually has the audacity to smile at him.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you so much for all of your help,” Oleg says sarcastically.

Beeman’s eyes narrow, but he looks resigned.

“Will you tell Nina I’m sorry? I imagine with her record she won’t be able to return to the Rezidentura.”

“She doesn’t want to hear that,” Oleg scoffs. “You betrayed her!”

“I’m sorry, weren’t you the one who threatened to rat her out to your boss? How’d Arkady find out she was spying for us anyway, huh, Oleg? Did you feel guilty afterwards? Never ruined anyone’s life before?”

“She wasn’t spying for you, idiot! Not anymore. We used her to try and turn you--with her permission, of course. I didn’t blackmail Nina into doing anything.”

“Yeah, because the KGB is so noble. Get over yourself, Oleg. You’re not a hero.”

“Don’t you get it? She didn’t love you, she didn’t care about all your empty promises of ‘freedom in America’. She went back to us!”

“Why do you care so much? What do you get out of this?”

“Nina’s pregnant,” Oleg announces.

Beeman takes a step back, obviously shocked.

“What? I...I got a vasectomy.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Oleg says venomously. “It’s not yours. It’s mine.”

“ _Oh_.”

Now, he can tell, he’s hit a nerve. Beeman bites his lip anxiously, then steels himself, puffing his chest out.

“How do I know you’re not making that up?”

“You don’t know my father, but he wouldn’t have bothered to help Nina if not for the thought of his innocent little grandchild being born in prison. You don’t have anything in common with Nina, you don’t understand her, not like I do. We love each other.”

“Nina called you a spoiled brat,” Beeman spits. “When you first started trying to work me. She told me you were a spoiled little brat and your father bought your job for you.”

Oleg flinches, taken aback.

“She didn’t mean that...she wanted to make you think she didn’t trust me. Our operation wouldn’t work if you knew about us.”

“Okay, Oleg, keep telling yourself that.”

“It’s true! She said it wasn’t real with you like with me.”

“Well, she’s a good actress, Nina. She made me think it was real too.”

Beeman throws the door all the way open, glaring at him.

“You know she fucked your Rezident too, right?”

Oleg laughs incredulously. “Arkady? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, you naive little fool, the one before him. Vasili? She worked him over for the information I needed, and he didn’t suspect a thing either.”

Oleg clenches his fists.

“Shut up! Don’t you dare talk about her like that.”

“But yeah, Oleg, I’m sure she’s going to be your perfect Soviet trophy wife or mommy to your baby or whatever it is that you think you’re getting.”

“I don’t--I’m not--she’s not--”

Beeman turns to close the door.

“Hey, Beeman, speaking of our perfect love lives, how’s your divorce going?”

The American gives Oleg a withering look.

“Fuck you, Oleg. Enjoy yourself--unless she stabs you in the back too.”

The door slams shut.

“Fuck you too!” Oleg yells.

The man from across the street is still staring at him, wide-eyed, the string of Christmas lights dangling from his gloved hand. His wife has come to the door of the house too, incredulous in a plaid apron.

Oleg gives them a sarcastic wave.

“Merry Christmas,” he shouts on his way back to the car.

Just like the last time he confronted Stan Beeman, he ends up feeling worse than he did before.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a reunion :)
> 
> Hope you enjoy, please comment if you can, I’ve put a lot of research into this and I love feedback.

The day she’s meant to be released, Nina can’t stop pacing around her cell. She’s terrified the guards will never come for her, that it’s all been a lie.

She’d received two more visits from Oleg’s father in the last month.

The first time, they’d talked politics, and logistics.

“Did you know Yuri Andropov has been elected General Secretary?”

She’d had to stifle an incredulous laugh at his question.

“I had no idea. _Pravda_ doesn’t deliver in here. I suppose they’re pleased back in the KGB?”

“Yes, so Oleg reports. Anyway, I believe the new leadership will be beneficial to you. Comrade Andropov is a personal friend. I have spoken to him about your case, and he seems...a bit reluctant, but willing to listen.”

Nina had leaned forward in her chair, heart leaping.

“You’re going to intercede for me?”

“I am going to try. Oleg and my wife have been very dedicated advocates for your cause.”

Nina had let herself smile. She was interested to hear about Oleg’s mother; hopefully, it was a sign the whole family wasn’t as hostile to her as Igor Pavlovich.

“Thank you,” she had said quietly.

Igor Pavlovich had nodded brusquely.

“Anyway, Andropov’s main objection is your initial betrayal of KGB secrets, of course, but I believe we can make a solid counter-argument regarding your work for us against the Americans. The Rezident has even offered to write a letter on your behalf, recommending that your sentence be commuted.”

“Arkady Ivanovich would do that for me?”

Nina had been worried the whole Rezidentura would easily abandon her.

“I imagine he’s probably sick of my son wailing at him about it every other day.”

Igor Pavlovich had offered her a dry half-smile.

“Oleg clearly adores you. Don’t betray his trust.”

His second visit had been a week before her release date. He’d informed her that General Secretary Andropov had signed her pardon. She would never work in government again, of course, but she was free to go. Oleg was flying into Moscow from Washington, and he would be there to pick her up.

Since then, Nina’s been in a rapid-cycling whirlwind of emotion. She’s been excited, nervous, and scared all at once. She’s been so focused on getting out of prison that she hasn’t really thought about what comes next. Where will she go? Would Oleg still want to be with her, now that being with her means a lot more than playful, indulgent sex whenever he wants it? What will happen to the baby?

She’s not showing yet, not really. Her stomach’s started to round out a little bit, stretching the waistband of her sweatpants. But it wouldn’t be noticeable to most other people, especially in better-fitting clothes. Now that her morning sickness has mostly stopped, it’s sometimes easy to forget about the realities of her situation. But she can’t.

If it hadn’t been for her arrest, she’s not sure she would have kept the baby. Part of her might have wanted to, but it would have brought her career screeching to a halt. Pregnant women can’t be spies--or even diplomats.

Now, though, her child seems to be her savior. It’s also a small, poignant link between her and Oleg--on purely personal as well as practical levels. She visualizes it, sometimes, their child to be. In her mind’s eye, she pictures a chubby little boy with Oleg’s impish, lazy smile, or a gangly girl with his ease of manner. It is hard to imagine a life without worry, though. Sometimes, in her darker moments, the child has downturned eyes and shy, frightened posture.

It is hard, as well, to imagine her and Oleg’s backgrounds melding, when she imagines their children’s childhood. Nina does not feel as if she was deprived--her parents were loving, though tired and busy. She had a roof over her head, even if their home was cramped. They had enough to eat, even if the lines were exhaustingly long and luxuries like meat and candy were scarce. Everyone else she knew lived like that, though. And there were little joys, too, dispersed throughout her childhood. The floppy rag dolls her father’s mother stitched for all of her granddaughters--dark-haired and dark-eyed for Nina, blonde for her cousins. Learning to sing songs about Lenin and the Party at Young Pioneer meetings, all of their voices raised together. Saving kopeks with her playmates and going to the cinema, watching a wondrous animated feature like _Gena The Crocodile_ with wide eyes and soaring hearts.

Besides, life was better in the Soviet Union. That’s what her mother had always said.

Nina’s mother had been born and raised in Calcutta, had joined the Indian Communist Party as a teenager, and had come as an international student to the university in Vladivostok, where she had met Nina’s father. In the Soviet Union, every child went to school, girls and boys. Indian children, her mother told her, only went to school if their parents had money. (Nina’s grandfather, who she had never met, was a doctor). Otherwise, they worked, even when they were tiny. Many parents didn’t even want their daughters to read. To little Nina, who loved school, this was unimaginable.

In India, like all capitalist countries, her mother said, rich people were very rich and everyone else had nothing. In the Soviet Union, everyone had enough, and almost everyone had nothing more than they needed.

Almost everyone. People like the Burovs might as well live in a parallel universe, their lives barely overlapping with those of Nina’s family. She hadn’t really realized how much space there was in between until she’d met Oleg. Everyone knew, of course, that the Party elite ate much better than they did, lived comfortably in their big grand houses. Some people, like her mother, felt a vague resentment, an ideological discomfort. Some, like her father, merely wished they, too, didn’t have to wait in the bread lines after a long day at work. Nina’s grandmother always said _the poor you will always have with you_ , and the rich too.

But mostly, they didn’t think about it too much. The nomenklatura were out of sight, out of mind. If little Nina sometimes wished for her own bedroom, because her father’s snores seemed as if they could shake the walls and sometimes her baby brother wailed all through the night--well, life was getting better every day, and they were building socialism. In fact, it was people like Igor Pavlovich Burov who were building socialism, and they surely worked hard, even if they filled their own pockets too.

Being with Oleg brings it all home, though. Her boyfriend has never known anything but privilege and affluence, and it shows. He’s not snotty about it--he’s just never had to worry, always gotten whatever he wanted. It’s not as if Oleg isn’t capable; he’s so very smart, and he has drive and determination, even if he hides it well. But he doesn’t need it. He has the comfort of knowing most things will come easily to him. Nina envies him that.

For her, working at the Rezidentura had been a privilege in of itself. A foreign posting, albeit an initially low-ranking one, had been the first step to making something of herself, and it had many perks. She finally had her own bedroom, even if she’d shared a bathroom with several other clerical workers at first, and the Rezidentura cafeteria was better than any communal dining hall she’d ever been in back home. They have to do this, she thinks--give them their fill of little luxuries to try and compete with the Americans’ flamboyantly displayed higher standard of living.

Oleg had whisked her away to the Washington Ritz after her polygraph test, made love to her in bed between soft sheets and then in that Jacuzzi with his hands tangled in her wet hair and his mouth on her throat, rose-scented bubbles bursting in between her legs. He’d probably wanted to impress her, to make it special. Maybe he’d felt like he was slumming it living in the Rezidentura apartments.

And she had loved it. This is how it starts, perhaps. You come from nothing--like her, like Arkady, like, undoubtedly, Igor Burov. On your first posting, you get a little taste of prestige, power, privilege. It’s not enough to make you feel guilty. If you make it high enough, they give you a summer home on a Crimean beach. Someday, your children will be high-spirited, content boys, enjoying themselves with girls in decadent hotel rooms. Showing those girls a world they’ve never known.

Maybe her baby will grow up like Oleg. Is that so bad? To be kept sweet, and carefree, and still full of the romantic visions and the idealism the rest of them had been forced to discard. He’s never had to get his hands dirty, never had to grasp and fight for power. Unlike his father--hardened, cynical, and distrustful, used to the machinations and corruption of the Party’s upper echelons--Oleg has the luxury of an open heart.

That’s probably why she’s been worried about him throughout this whole ordeal, she muses. Her arrest has really shaken him up--she can tell from reading between the lines during his father’s visits. Oleg isn’t used to hardship, either for himself or for those he cares about. This is probably the first time in his charmed life that things have gone completely off the rails.

Even now, even if everything goes according to plan and Nina is released, his easy life will be suddenly, unexpectedly complicated. He’s gone above and beyond what she could have hoped for, fighting for her release, but she’s not sure how he feels about the more mundane responsibilities of fatherhood. Will he still love her when she’s no longer a damsel in distress? Will he miss their office flirtations and their dancing, pressed close together to grinding funk music at American nightclubs?

Of course, it’s not like having a baby means she can’t have fun. But it changes things. So, all the same, she worries. And then she pushes aside her worries, because, after all, she’s not going to spend years of her life rotting away in a prison cell, and isn’t that worth celebrating?

When a guard comes to let her out of her cell, Nina can’t stop smiling. He just stares balefully at her, of course, but still she could almost jump for joy. She expects to be taken to the room where they strip-searched her when she first arrived, to be allowed to change back into her old clothes and leave her prison-issue sweatsuit behind. But they turn down the corridor that leads to the prison courtyard.

“Where are my clothes?” Nina asks hesitantly.

“We sent all your stuff away,” the guard grunts.

“Where? To my parents? To Comrade Burov’s house?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s December. I don’t have a coat.”

“Your fancy boyfriend’s got a car, it’s not like you’ll have to walk.”

Nina quickens her step to catch up with his long strides.

“Is Oleg here? Did you see him?”

The guard ignores her question.

“Lucky you, with your special pardon from the General Secretary. You picked a good guy to put out for.”

“Don’t talk to me like that. I’m not a prisoner anymore.”

“What, are you going to get me fired?”

Nina glares at him.

“I’m thinking about it.”

He scoffs, but shuts up.

The door opens, and she stumbles out into the Lefortovo courtyard, blinding white with the afternoon sun glinting on freshly fallen snow. It is, as she predicted, freezing cold. She hesitates on the threshold, looking around for Oleg.

The guard nudges her in the small of the back.

“Go on, you’re free to go. You’re not our problem anymore.”

“Nina! Nina!”

There he is, across the courtyard, near the street side, where the van from the Lubyanka had pulled in to deliver her here. He’s bare-headed, waving his hat in his hand wildly, starting to run. Igor Pavlovich is a few paces behind him, talking to another man, also well-dressed--perhaps the prison warden.

Right now, though, Nina only has eyes for Oleg. She lets out a strangled noise, part scream, part laugh, part sob.

Then, she’s bolting towards him, her feet slipping in the slick snow, feeling the icy wind on her face like a knife, like salvation.

She can’t speak, can’t see. Her eyes are blurred, although she barely registers her tears. His voice rushes over her, familiar yet incomprehensible. The only things that matter are these: her face buried in his chest, his arms around her, cradling her, pulling her in and holding her close. He’s kissing her forehead frantically, all over, little butterfly kisses.

After a minute or so, she adjusts enough to understand what he’s saying, his voice hoarse and thick with his own tears.

“You’re safe now, Nina, you don’t have to worry about anything. Not ever. I promise.”

She looks up at him, his dear, wide-eyed earnest face, and smiles tremulously, wanting to say a thousand words and nothing at all.

“I love you,” he says breathlessly, and stoops down to kiss her on the cheek, oh-so-softly.

Nina flings her arms around his neck and kisses him back, hard, on the mouth.

Oleg responds enthusiastically at first, then reluctantly pulls away, cupping her face in the palm of his hand.

“What are we doing? You’re shivering, Nina, you haven’t got a coat. Let me walk you to the car.”

He fumbles with the buttons on his own heavy woolen overcoat, pulling it half off of his shoulders and tucking her underneath it, close to his side.

Oleg’s father has stepped away from the warden, and strides towards them, looking dour as usual.

“Thank you,” Nina calls earnestly from where she’s wedged under Oleg’s arm. “For what you did for me.”

“You’re welcome,” he says gruffly.

Nina and Oleg walk awkwardly to the curb outside Lefortovo, where the car stands idling. It’s sleek, black, and well-polished, with tinted windows--a politician’s ride. Igor Pavlovich sits up front next to the chauffeur, leaving the backseat for the two of them.

The car is warm, and the seats are plush padded leather. After the last two months, Nina feels like she’s in a dream.

“Are you still cold?” Oleg asks anxiously as she buckles her seatbelt, sliding in next to her. “I saw a sbiten vendor a few streets away. A hot drink might do you some good.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

“All right, head back the way we came from, please,” Oleg calls up to the driver as he pulls out of the prison driveway.

Turning his attention back to her, Oleg glances down at her slightly protruding stomach, then blushes. Suddenly feeling a bit shy herself, Nina tugs on the hem of her rumpled shirt.

She must look horrible, she thinks. They only let the prisoners take lukewarm, five-minute showers twice a week. Her clothes are awful and her hair is lank and messy. She’s not exactly the put-together, fashionably dressed girl he fell for at the Rezidentura.

“Can I--” Oleg gestures towards her midsection.

Nina nods, and he leans towards her, placing his big, warm hand gently over her navel.

“It’s not kicking or anything yet,” she says hastily. “That won’t happen for another few months.”

“I know.” He smiles at her, a little bashful. “Something to look forward to.”

“You mean that?”

He looks a little hurt.

“Of course I do. I want this baby, even if we’re not quite prepared yet.”

  
“What...exactly is your plan? When does your leave of absence expire? Arkady will expect you back in Washington.”

Oleg’s lips quirk.

“Ah, maybe someday. But for now--I’m not going back to Washington. And I won’t be with the KGB anymore, actually. Papa got me a position working under him—I’ll help design and produce new engines and machinery. It’s a bit less prestigious, of course, and not quite so exciting as being abroad, but I do have an engineering degree, you know. And Mama is excited I’ll be back in Moscow. And there’s you, and the baby.”

He says all of this in a rush, and then bites his lip.

“I’m sure you’ll be a brilliant engineer,” Nina says gently, covering his hand with her smaller one.

“I hope so. I focused on military engineering in university, but Papa said there’s no way I could pass security clearance to work on military projects if I stay with you, even if he helps.”

Nina feels a rush of fervent gratitude, coupled with guilt.

“Of course, I still have a pretty good job,” Oleg adds hurriedly. “And I’m grateful to my father for providing it.”

He’s clearly aware that Igor Pavlovich is listening in on their conversation, but his fingers clench against hers. Nina pets his hand carefully.

“I’m glad you’re staying in the USSR. I want to be with you.”

He blinks at her, surprised.

“Of course!”

By this time, the car’s rolled to a stop on a street corner by the sbiten vendor, and the chauffeur has gotten out to buy Nina’s drink. Now, returning, he passes the paper cup back to Nina.

She takes a sip, tasting honey, strawberry jam, and home.

“Where--where am I going to live?”

“Well, I used to have my own apartment here in Moscow, but then I left for America, so we’re staying at my family’s house for now. That’s where we’re headed right now. We’ll need a bigger apartment for us and the baby. We could start looking now, or wait until we’re married?”

Nina chokes on her sbiten.

“You want to get married?”

“Do you...do you not want to? I don’t want you to feel obligated--just because I got you out of prison--I mean, why wouldn’t I want to marry you? Oh, no, I should have asked, damn it--hey, Nina? Do you want to get married?”

He laughs nervously, with a catch in his voice.

“You don’t have to say anything right away, I don’t want to pressure you. Nina, I just--”

She bridges the gap between the two of them and kisses him softly on the lips.

“Shh,” she murmurs into his mouth.

“Yes,” she says, pulling away after a moment. “Let’s do it. I just wasn’t sure you’d ask.”

He laughs again, this time sounding exhilarated, which makes her laugh too, and then they’re kissing again.

Even with the notoriously bad Moscow traffic, it still takes little more than half an hour to drive from the Lefortovo prison to the Burovs’ neighborhood. It’s startling to think that she’s spent two months in a cramped, shadowy cell, perhaps five miles away. Here, the streets are wide and clean, with trees clustered in miniature parks at the end of most blocks. Now, in December, their branches are bare, but in the spring and summer it must be green and beautiful here.

Nina has never been to this part of Moscow before. She came on a school trip when she was in the sixth grade, to see Lenin in his tomb, but they’d only ventured beyond Red Square for museums. And she’d been in Moscow on her way to America, but then she’d been debriefed by KGB officers at the Lubyanka building, where she’d later returned for her treason trial, and then sent to the airport. She’s never been to a residential neighborhood here, and certainly not one as posh as this.

“Where are we?”

Nina presses her nose to the chilly glass of the car window, gazing out.

“We live in the Tverskaya District,” Oleg informs her cheerfully. “A couple blocks away from the Hermitage Garden. My brother and I used to ride our bikes on the pathways there when we were kids. I’ll take you out for a drive tomorrow and show you all the theaters and the Gorky Literature Institute. Have you ever been to the Moscow Art Theater? It’s where--”

“Where Chekhov’s plays premiered? Oh, is it near here?”

“Half an hour’s walk from our house in good weather, which it isn’t.”

Nina smiles at him.

“I’d love to see it.”

“We can see a play there too, this weekend, if it’s not much. Whatever you want.”

“That sounds wonderful, but maybe not right away. It might be overwhelming for me.”

“Oh, of course. I understand.”

Oleg reaches up, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear gently.

“This must feel so weird to you, finally being outside...out of prison, I mean. I am so, so sorry this happened to you.”

“It isn’t your fault.”

“But I feel awful--it took months! I wish I could have saved you earlier.”

“Oleg, please, it really isn’t your fault, not at all. You were my advocate.”

In the front seat, Igor Pavlovich shifts his weight, perhaps a bit uncomfortably.

“We’re home,” he announces, clearing his throat.

The chauffeur pulls their car into a little driveway that cuts across the wide, flag-stoned sidewalk. In front of the car, a wrought-iron gate blocks off a passageway built through the house, with a snowy back courtyard visible on the other side of the tunnel.

As soon as the parking brake is on, Oleg scrambles out of the car hastily and runs around the back to open the door for Nina. She steps out cautiously, letting him tuck her close to his side and under his warm coat again.

She stares up at the house, rising imposingly above her. It’s a wide, square two-story building, clearly of 19th century vintage, with the neoclassical facade beloved of pre-revolutionary urban elites--and, apparently, their communist successors. The walls are a soft peach color, with elaborately sculpted white mouldings and trim. There are three sets of polished hardwood doors, each with its own miniature white-columned veranda.

Nina blinks.

“Is this all yours?”

Surely the multiple doors mean multiple families? The house would still make a substantial triplex, but all to itself it’s palatial.

“Well, yeah--my family’s, at least.”

Oleg points up to one corner of the house.

“Those two windows right there are my bedroom, though.”

Nina can’t help but narrow her eyes slightly, but she doesn’t say anything more.

Igor Pavlovich has strode past them, pulling a heavy ring of keys out of his overcoat pocket and unlocking the heavy door.

Nina slips out from under Oleg’s arm as they enter the foyer. She’s careful to step on the wooden floorboards, not the fancy carpet. There’s a shoe rack beside the door, just like in the common room of her family’s apartment. Nina quickly slips off her prison-issued canvas shoes, still damp from the snow in the Lefortovo courtyard, and exchanges them for a pair of fur-lined ladies’ house slippers, embroidered with little pink roses. Oleg and his father also swap their shoes, and hang their overcoats up on a coat tree. Oleg practically tosses his discarded oxfords into the rack, then bolts off down the hallway.

“Hey, everybody! We’re home! Get ready to meet Nina!”

Before any human response, there’s a distant flurry of barking.

In a minute, a pair of pretty little spaniels skid into the hallway, tails wagging as soon as they see Oleg. The all-black one jumps up directly on him, putting its paws on his knees, while the brown-and-white heads over to sniff Nina cautiously.

Nina offers the dog her hand, and is greeted with the gentle swipe of a small pink tongue.

“Oleg, I didn’t know you had dogs.”

“Oh, yes, we love dogs. That’s Zoya with you, and Mavra is the black one. Papa hunts with Zoya at our dacha, but Mavra’s gun-shy, so she’s just my mother and grandmother’s little pet.”

He scratches her behind the ears.

“They’re so beautiful and silky,” Nina says, petting Zoya’s soft ears as well. “My family always had a cat, because we live in an apartment. But I like dogs too.”

Igor Pavlovich whistles for the dogs, heading out of the foyer with the spaniels trotting obediently behind him.

Nina follows, a bit hesitant. Oleg quickly takes her hand as she reaches him, giving the top of her head a quick, reassuring kiss.

The Burovs’ front room--a sitting room? Or a parlor? Nina’s never been in a house that has either before--is furnished in a formal, heavy style that reminds her oddly of the Rezidentura. It’s all dark wood and brocaded fabric. There’s even a portrait of Lenin hanging in between two of the windows.

Nina pauses, expecting to be received here, but Oleg tugs her along by the hand.

“The parlor’s where we have guests over. You’re going to be family.”

A grand door off the parlor, propped open, displays a big formal dining room with a table that could seat twelve and a glass chandelier.

Igor Pavlovich heads for a second, closed door, though, and Oleg follows with Nina.

The next room, thankfully, is less overwhelming. It’s another sitting room, but this one actually looks lived in. The furniture isn’t so fancy, and some of the chair legs even have well-loved scuff marks on them. There’s a television in one corner and a record player in another. The dogs’ baskets sit by a fireplace, with little embroidered name tags on them.

The sight makes Nina smile despite her nerves.

“Our family room,” Oleg announces. “And my family!”

He gestures enthusiastically around.

Sure enough, this must be Oleg’s mother and grandmother.

“Mama, this is Nina Sergeyevna Krilova. Nina, meet my mother, Yelena.”

Oleg’s mother is tall, and sturdily built. Her face is strong-featured, with large dark eyes, her greying brown hair pulled back in a tight twist and held fast with an enameled comb. She’s wearing a black-and-white checked winter wool dress and black silk stockings.

Her smile is a little stiff as she shakes Nina’s hand--awkward, perhaps? Hopefully not unfriendly. Her eyes are warm, Nina notices.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Yelena says, and her voice is warm as well.

“And you,” Nina says. “Thank you for interceding for me.”

Yelena’s eyes widen slightly, as if surprised by the comment.

“I wouldn’t have done anything else. It would have broken my son’s heart to lose you.”

Oleg beams at her, wrapping his arm around Nina’s waist.

“Don’t forget me, Olezka!”

The little old woman sitting in a high-backed armchair, of course, must be Oleg’s grandmother. Nina smiles at her use of Oleg’s baby-nickname, and the teasing lilt in her voice.

Oleg laughs out loud.

“Of course not! Nina, meet my babushka. Anna Andreyevna, my father’s mother.”

At first glance, there couldn’t possibly be any resemblance between stone-faced Igor Burov and this birdlike old lady with her thick spectacles and bright smile. But when she rises to greet them, her son slips to her side and solicitously offers her his arm.

Anna Andreyevna walks with a slight hobble, and she barely comes up to Oleg’s chest. But for a moment as she peers up at the two of them, Nina is a little intimidated. Suddenly, she badly wants this odd-looking old woman in her cornflower-blue dress to like her.

Thankfully, Oleg’s grandmother smiles, and then swoops in for a quick hug, kissing both Nina and Oleg on their cheeks.

“What a beautiful girl you are, even in those awful clothes. I am so very sorry about the whole prison thing, by the way. Thank God that’s over with.”

Oleg looks a bit offended on her behalf, but Nina bursts out laughing, because the comment is so unexpected.

“Thank you,” she says once she’s recovered her breath. “I’m very happy to be here.”

“Perhaps,” Yelena says delicately, “you would like to have a bath and put on new clothes before supper? We want you to feel comfortable and settle in. Oleg can show you to your room.”

Nina nods. She’ll surely feel on somewhat more equal footing with Oleg’s family if she looks herself, and not like she’s just climbed out of the gutter.

“Come on, Nina, I’ll take you upstairs,” Oleg says, pulling at her arm. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is up late, guys. I was in St Petersburg and didn’t have internet access. Please read and comment!

After leaving the rest of the family, Nina and Oleg go back into the front parlor, and then through yet another door. The next room is mainly just a display hall for a rather grand staircase, with gleamingly polished handrails.

The walls on the way up are hung with bright little cityscape paintings, their colors glowing like jewels.

The first is clearly Moscow, but Nina doesn’t recognize all the others. The third, though, is familiar.

“Kazan!” She exclaims, turning to smile at Oleg. “That’s the Khan’s mosque! I would know that tower anywhere.”

“Papa travels a lot for work, and he likes to buy things for the house. These are all places he’s been.”

He climbs the staircase after her, pointing out the different cities.

“Sevastopol, Tbilisi, Samarkand, Irkutsk, and Astrakhan.”

Nina lingers at the top of the stairs, still thinking about the little painting of Kazan.

“I should call home. My parents ought to know I’ve been released. And...they don’t know about us either. Or the baby.”

Oleg nods.

“You can call from your room if you want.”

“What time is it?”

He glances at his watch. “Half past four. Why?”

“My parents will still be at work. When do you all eat supper?”

“Seven o’clock. On the dot.”  
  
“I’ll call after we eat, I suppose.”

“Sounds good. We put your stuff in the guest room closest to mine--it’s not the biggest one, but I thought it would be easier for me to sneak in there.”

He smirks at her flirtatiously.

“I wanted to move your clothes into my room, but Mama said it would be improper. Seems a bit ridiculous seeing as you’re already pregnant, but I didn’t want to make too many waves.”

“Oh, do you have my clothes? The guard said they’d been sent out but I don’t know where they went.”

“No, we haven’t got the package from Lefortovo, I think they probably just threw that out. But I brought everything you left behind in your room at the Rezidentura. And there’s some stuff from Arkady--he picked out a few books for you that you couldn’t get here, and a stuffed toy for the baby. It’s some weird thing called a Smurf. Apparently they’re all the rage in the US right now.”

Nina laughs, thinking of Arkady asking some American store clerk about toy fads.

“That was so sweet of him, really. I bet he had more fun shopping for the books, though. Imagine Arkady in a store full of screaming little capitalist children. He must have been horrified.”

Oleg snorts with laughter.

“Anyway, this is my room up here! And you’ll be right next door. You’ve got your own bathroom and everything, you’ll be very comfortable. I had to share with my brother, we’ve got a little connecting suite with our rooms and the bathroom and our old playroom from when we were little. That’s for storage now, but Mama thinks we’ve still got some things packed away that we might use for the baby. I know we’ve got a lovely old rocking horse and there’s me and Pasha’s old clothes and stuff. If the baby’s a boy, I guess. If we have a girl you and Mama and my babushka can go crazy getting little dresses if you want.”

Nina can’t imagine having a whole room to store old clothes and toys. Her parents still have Nina’s childhood rag doll, but almost everything else has been bartered or given away--dresses received from her older cousin got patched up and traded off to the little neighbor girl as soon as Nina outgrew them. It’s hard to picture hand-me-downs being a matter of sentiment, not of necessity.

“I wish you could meet Pasha,” Oleg continues. “He might be able to get leave from Afghanistan for the wedding, if we do it in the spring. Mama wants to hurry it up, before you really start showing, but I think that’s so old fashioned. I don’t think pregnancy should be shameful. Besides, I don’t want you to feel rushed. You can take your time to adjust to all of this. I know I need to.”

He runs his hand through his hair, sighing.

“It’s a lot. Marriage, a baby, being back in Moscow with my family fussing over us about everything. And I wasn’t in prison, either.”

“Yeah,” Nina says in a small voice. “I’d rather wait a few months too.”

All of a sudden, she feels herself fighting tears.

“Nina, what happened? Are you alright?”

She nods shakily, still sniffling.

Oleg jerks the door to the guest bedroom open.

“Come in, please, sit down on the bed or something. I don’t want you to just stand in the hallway and cry.”

Nina obediently trails over to the big four-poster bed, and sinks down, wrapping her arms around her stomach protectively. Oleg plops down next to her and puts his own arm around her shoulders.

“Hey, what’s happening? Is it my family? I’m sure they’ll like you! Even Papa, eventually.”

“No, it’s not them, not really,” Nina sniffs. “It’s what you said about not being ashamed. This is going to be some huge scandal, isn’t it? I mean, if you marry me? How could it not be?”

“People have kids out of wedlock all the time.”

“Not people like _you_! And not with people like me. All of your father’s friends in the Politburo are going to be snickering about us, about you ruining your perfect life because you knocked up some gold-digging traitor slut.”

“Don’t call yourself that, Nina. That’s not true.”

“That’s how people are going to see me! That’s how your father sees me!”

Oleg winces.

“I’m working on that.”

“I don’t want you to resent me.”

“Nina, how could I? If people want to gossip about us, whatever. It’ll blow over the next time there’s a nuclear crisis or some corruption scandal. Besides, you’ll be shocked to hear this, but I have a bit of a reputation as a scatter-brained wild child.”

Nina giggles tearfully.

“Really? You?”

“Anyway, people might have expected some kind of crazy thing from me. You’ll look like a perfect, poised little angel in comparison.”

He runs his finger along her jawline, the movement soft and tender, then lifts her chin to kiss her.

It’s endearing, the pleased little hum he makes when their lips meet. His hands find her waist, start to pull her up onto his lap.

Nina breaks the kiss.

“Oleg?”

“Mm?”

“I’m not...I’m not ready.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to have sex right now. You said I might need time, and I think I do for this too. It’s not that I don’t want you, of course--it’s just that it’s all so overwhelming. I’m still not used to having you with me again.”

Oleg nods.

“You feel vulnerable.”

“I suppose so. I’m sorry if you were expecting--”

“No! It’s alright, I mean I was hoping, I won’t deny it, but there’ll be plenty of time for that later. Once you’re okay with it.”

Nina rests her head against his shoulder.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

They sit like that for a long moment, in companionable silence.

“I think I’ll have that bath now?”

“Bathroom’s on the right, closet’s on the left. All your clothes I brought from Washington got put in there.”

Nina stands up, a little stiffly. Oleg flops down on his back on the bed, looking up at her.

She suddenly thinks back to the Jacuzzi at the Ritz, the two of them laughing and splashing in the water, joined together with him inside of her. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Soft chaste kisses and then they go their separate ways? She’d wanted to take things slowly, but maybe she should have pushed past her vulnerability, just to make him happy.

“I’ll see you in a bit, then,” she says quietly.

“See you, Nina.”

Despite her misgivings, the bath is almost ridiculously nice. And she and Oleg would have had a hard time squeezing into the tub together anyway, since it’s an ordinary size, not much different from the one in her family’s communal apartment, and certainly no Jacuzzi. Still, though, it feels decadent after two months of prison showers. With hot water running over her legs, and soft lavender-scented soap on her skin instead of the glue-textured slime they have at Lefortovo, she almost feels normal again. After a good long soak, she showers off and washes her hair.

When she’s finished, Oleg is still sprawled on the bed, reading one of the books Arkady must have gotten her.

“ _Midnight’s Children_?” Nina reads off the title as she sits down beside him.

“It’s about Indian independence. Kind of historical, kind of... _trippy_.”

He says the last word in English.

“Arkady thought you might like it because of your mother.”

Nina smiles.

“I’m touched.”

She glances again at the cover.

“The author, Mr. Rushdie. He’s Indian?”

“Born in India, went to Britain for university, still lives there now. So says the inside jacket.”

“Like my mother, only she came here. And she’s a medical assistant, not an author.”

“Did your parents meet at university?”

“No, actually. My mother was at the Vladivostok State Medical University, and my father went to a technikum. He’s a worker at the Aircraft Production Association in Kazan now--they moved west when I was three. Mama was training to be a doctor, but she dropped out when she got pregnant with me. So she never completed her qualifications, but she works under the doctors in the oncology ward. Anyway, they met at a Komsomol meeting. Mama went because she wanted to practice her Russian and learn more about the Party. Papa says he went because the Komsomol in Vladivostok had a hockey team.”

“I played hockey when I was in Komsomol too! And rugby as well, but I wasn’t a star athlete. I hadn’t really filled out yet and I had these huge clumsy feet, like a puppy.”

Nina smiles fondly at the image, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Oleg smiles back at her, then continues chattering.

“Does your father still like going to games? I absolutely haunted the stadiums during the Olympics two years ago. It was a disappointing showing because of the boycott--I like to see good competition. I did get to the men’s handball finals, and that was absolutely thrilling, even though we took silver. Do you remember? 22 points to us and 23 to East Germany. I was on the edge of my seat.”

“Papa does like seeing games, but he doesn’t often get time because of work. I didn’t keep up with the Moscow Olympics, actually, I’d just started working at the Rezidentura that summer. You couldn’t get anything to do with the Olympics on American television because of the boycott.”

“The whole thing was ridiculous, really--‘we won’t play games with you because we don’t like your war.’ But they’ll flood Afghan warlords with money to fight against us!”

Oleg rolls up to a seated position, flushing angrily.

“You’re worried about your brother?” Nina asks sympathetically.

Oleg hasn’t talked much about his brother to her before, but perhaps being in their childhood home is bringing Pasha to the front of his mind.

“Yes, I suppose. I shouldn’t be, not really--he’s not some teenager who’s just been drafted. He went to the Moscow Command School and graduated as a lieutenant, just like Papa. Only the Great Patriotic War broke out right after Papa left school, and he became a decorated war hero and everything. But Pasha didn’t see conflict for ten years and went back to the Frunze Academy to train to be a captain. So now he’s Captain Pavel Burov fighting the mujahideen, and we’re all very proud of him, of course.”

Of course, it’s not a surprise to Nina that Igor Pavlovich served in the Red Army as well. For a man of his age, it would be shocking if he didn’t. Her father was too young to fight in the Great Patriotic War, but Nina’s paternal grandfather got a bullet in his leg at Malgobek in 1942 and two of his fingers shot off retaking Krasnodar from the Wehrmacht a year later. He’d been drafted, though, not an officer. Nina supposes Igor Pavlovich’s apparently distinguished service might have launched his political career.

“My little brother is seventeen,” Nina says. “We worry he’ll be drafted. I don’t suppose so, seeing as the war in Afghanistan isn’t taking nearly as many men, and Yuri ought to be able to get into university. But we still worry.”

“I’m sure he’ll be alright,” Oleg says, a little awkwardly.

“You must really miss your family. I want to meet them before we get married. Do you think we should bring them up to Moscow to stay with us or should we go to Kazan and stay with them?”

Nina’s mind briefly flashes with vivid images of her parents and Yuri staring in shock at the Burovs’ huge grand house. She also imagines Oleg’s long, lean body tossing and turning on the floor in their apartment in Kazan, since they don’t have a spare bed. Both pictures are daunting in their own way.

“We’d better have them visit us here. We don’t have a lot of room for guests back home.”

Oleg nods.

“Sounds good.”

He stretches, yawning.

“Sorry, I’m still a bit jet lagged. Only flew in the day before yesterday.”

He frowns, fingers toying with the edge of the fluffy towel she’s wrapped around herself.

“You should get dressed. Dinner won’t be for another hour or so, but we can hang out downstairs.”

At the mention of dinner, Nina’s stomach grumbles. She blushes, embarrassed.

“They bring our food at six o’clock in prison. I guess I’m used to eating by now.”

Oleg grins.

“I’m sure you’re hungry, ‘cause you’re eating for two.”

He gives her towel-clad stomach an affectionate little pat.

“We can go into the kitchen and snitch something to eat before dinner if you like.”

“Your mother won’t be upset?”

“Oh, Mama doesn’t cook--Lidiya Ivanovna is our housekeeper, and she’d probably let me get away with murder. I’m sure we can rustle up something.”

Nina shouldn’t be surprised they have a cook, she supposes, but she just didn’t think about it. The fact that Oleg appears to have been doted on by every woman in the house growing up, on the other hand, is no shock at all.

“Did she work for your family when you were little too?”

“Yeah, Papa became a deputy minister when I was five. That’s when we moved into this house, and the state provides domestic staff to high-ranking officials, of course. Lidiya’s worked for us ever since, except when she took time off to have her babies.”

Nina nods, getting up and crossing to the closet. She feels a surprisingly powerful rush of relief when she opens the door and sees all her clothes, neatly lined up on her hangers. The familiar patterns, cuts, and fabrics remind her of her old life, before all of this happened. She supposes Lidiya Ivanovna might have gotten her room ready as well, rather than Oleg’s mother.

What on earth do women do, when they don’t have to work or take care of their own homes? What will she do, when Oleg’s off at work? Would anyone even hire her, with her record? Is she supposed to sit at home, decorative and coddled, her husband’s little treasure?

She pushes her thoughts aside, refusing to let the uncertain future cloud her first day of freedom. Reaching out, she runs her hand along her clothes from the Rezidentura, wondering which articles will most easily suit her slightly fuller figure.

She decides easily on a loose white blouse, but she has to try three skirts on before she gets one that she can zip up all the way.

“Does this look alright?” She turns to Oleg anxiously, modeling the skirt, a red and black houndstooth.

“You look beautiful,” Oleg says reassuringly.

“I guess you’ll need some clothes to grow into, though. I can take you downtown to shop over the weekend if you like. Or maybe you’d rather make it a girl thing? Mama could take you on Monday after I start work.”

Nina frowns, smoothing the front of her skirt.

“I’d like to go with you, but I probably should go with your mother. I’d like to get to know her better.”

Oleg beams at her. “That’s a great idea! Mama is very fashionable, just like you. You should have a nice time.”

Nina pulls her still-damp hair back into a neat ponytail, surveying herself in the old-fashioned vanity mirror.

“Well, at least I look presentable now.”

Oleg stands up from the bed.

“Do you want to go downstairs and beg Lidiya for scraps?”

Nina mock-frowns at him.

“No wonder you get along so well with the dogs.”

But she is, after all, really quite hungry, so she heads over to the door, ready to go.

Oleg heads to her side, putting his arm around her again and tucking her close protectively. Even if Nina’s not ready to go to bed with him just now, the touch is familiar and welcoming.

She leans her head against his shoulder for a moment, smiling softly.

“Alright, Oleg, let’s go.”

The downstairs kitchen is large and modern, with a matched set of gleaming white appliances and a rug patterned with bright red poppies.

The woman at the stove, busy over a big copper pot of soup, must be Lidiya Ivanovna. She’s an inch or two shorter than Nina, and younger than Oleg’s parents, probably in her mid-forties. She has a cushy, maternal build and a wild cloud of graying blonde curls. Her apron is tied neatly over a rather whimsical polka-dot house dress.

Oleg leans casually against the wall, while Nina stands next to him awkwardly, hands clasped in front of her.

“Lidiya!” Oleg calls out excitedly. “Meet Nina!”

The cook spins around, hands on her hips. She examines Nina up and down carefully, then smiles.

“Welcome to Moscow, Nina.”

“Thank you. I’m glad to be here.”

“You’re very lucky to have Oleg, you know. He’s been in my kitchen every night since he got here telling me all about how much he loves you.”

Nina looks at Oleg, who is blushing slightly.

“Oh, have you really?”

He grins at her sheepishly.

“Yeah, because I do.”

“Oleg’s always been such a sweet boy,” Lidiya says fondly.

“You don’t need to convince her,” Oleg half-grumbles, but he still looks a bit pleased at the praise.

Nina laughs.

“I know he is.”

“He told me all about how you were falsely accused, too. It’s really dreadful, I’m so sorry. I’m glad Igor Pavlovich was able to help you.”

Nina raises her eyebrows involuntarily. It seems Oleg’s been misleading about how exactly his wonderful girlfriend wound up in prison. She wonders if Lidiya would be quite so friendly to her if she knew the truth.

Nina is a bit surprised Lidiya hasn’t heard the nasty details from Igor Pavlovich already, but she supposes a busy, important government minister can’t be bothered to spend too much time with the help.

Even though she’s a little uncomfortable meeting this woman under the cover of a lie, she supposes she’s grateful to Oleg for protecting her.

“Yes, well, I certainly am glad to be free. And you’re right, I am lucky to have Oleg. He’s been a real hero.”

Lidiya beams at both of them. Nina turns to look at Oleg. Perhaps she’s laying it on a bit thick, but she is truly very thankful for him, and she’s reluctant to credit Igor Pavlovich for her salvation.

Oleg looks both exhilarated and extremely embarrassed.

“I’d have been a total bastard if I hadn’t helped you,” he blurts, sounding a bit distressed at the thought.

The statement makes Nina think of Stan, and wonders if Oleg too has him in mind. The reminder makes her slightly anxious, and she takes Oleg’s hand for comfort.

He smiles at her, and tugs her over closer to Lidiya and the stove.

“You’re making rassolnik, right? Can we steal some pickles?”

Lidiya points her wooden spoon at him in mock severity.

“You’ll spoil your supper.”

Oleg pouts.

“Nina’s pregnant. She needs pickles.”

Nina herself blushes, a bit embarrassed. But apparently Oleg’s told Lidiya about her pregnancy already as well, because there’s no scandalized reaction.

“What about you? You don’t need pickles,” Lidiya teases him.

“Yes, but I want them.”

“Oh, all right. Have at it.”

Oleg gleefully fishes around in the pickle jar with a fork, passing one over to Nina before popping the second into his own mouth.

Nina crunches thoughtfully, peering into the soup pot. Her family has rassolnik on winter nights as well--it’s warm and filling, with its sharp briny tang and fluffy heaps of wholesome barley. They usually make theirs with mushrooms, or liver and kidneys if they can get them. The Burovs’ rassolnik, however, has big chunks of stew meat floating in the broth.

“Smells tasty, right?” Lidiya asks.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” Nina praises her.

“I thought you might like a nice, simple, home-cooked meal,” Lidiya tells her earnestly. “I’m sure prison food is horrible. So we’re having rassolnik for the soup course, and then pan-fried beef steak with onions, and syrniki for dessert. Good, comforting food.”

“I suggested the syrniki!” Oleg announces, helping himself to another pickle. “They always make me feel like a little kid getting a treat.”

Nina laughs. “I used to love them growing up, too.”

So this is what the nomenklatura eats for Friday night family dinner. It’s not so unfamiliar--certainly nothing ostentatious. Still, though, all that meat for an ordinary meal would be an almost unimaginable luxury for her family.

“Was your mother able to make curries or anything when you were little?” Oleg asks curiously. “I imagine it was difficult to get the spices.”

“Oh, very difficult. We could get cumin and chili peppers from Georgian traders, and ginger, but that’s only some of the traditional curry spices, and they were expensive. So it was really only for special occasions anyway, and the recipes had to be adapted. Mama could still bake Indian breads, though, and she made kheer for me and my brother a lot--that’s rice pudding. But mostly we ate Russian food--my father’s mother taught her a lot of recipes after they were married. Or Tatar food sometimes, since I grew up in Kazan and some of the other ladies who lived in our apartment building taught her their recipes too.”

It was always chaotic, cooking in a communal apartment, planning out every detail in tandem with their neighbors. Whose dish went in the oven when, who got which burner on the stove. Some nights, one woman would cook dinner for all four families in their apartment, and the others would chip in to pay for the food. They would trade places in line at the state-owned store, buying groceries for the whole apartment. Nina remembers helping her mother grate carrots or mix up bread dough as a small child; by the time she was in middle school, she could handle dinner herself if her mother had a late shift at the hospital.

Lidiya has been listening to Nina’s description of her childhood cookery with apparent interest.

“So you’re Indian, then?”

“My mother is,” Nina says, a bit cautiously. “She came here for school and met my father.”

“I didn’t think you looked Russian. Thought you might be Tatar, actually, since Oleg said you were from Kazan.”

Nina flinches.

She had fit in well in Kazan, certainly, since she does look like many Tatar girls. Still, she doesn’t like being seen as exotic, whether because people think she’s Tatar or because they know she’s half Indian.

It stings, a little bit, knowing that sweet, friendly Lidiya might have looked at her and seen something that didn’t quite fit. She wonders if Oleg’s parents might think the same, and just not be as blunt. She really must look unsuitable--a convicted traitor, completely out of her social class, and not even a real Russian to boot.

She doesn’t want to say anything, to look rude in front of someone she’s barely met. Nina searches for a way to change the subject, but comes up blank.

“Nina’s Russian, though, just not all the way,” Oleg says with his mouth full of pickle. “More importantly, she’s a patriotic Soviet citizen, just like the rest of us.”

Nina can’t stop herself from choking slightly. She doesn’t know whether Oleg actually believes this, or if he’s just using the party-line rhetoric, but it’s so blatantly at odds with everything she’s been through and everything she’s done over the past year that it’s almost laughable.

Still, Lidiya flushes, clearly a bit embarrassed, and Nina feels a small jolt of satisfaction.

“Yes, of course.”

Oleg finishes up his pickle and smiles at both of them.

“Nina, do you want to head out to the family room?”

“Sure, alright.”

“It was nice to meet you, Nina,” Lidiya says.

“Thank you. I’m pleased to meet you too. And thanks for the pickles.”

The Burovs’ Friday evening entertainment is quite ordinary, really. The television is on, playing one of the popular _Sherlock Holmes_ television movies. Yelena and Anna Andreyevna are sitting on the couch, with Mavra the spaniel in between them, her head in Yelena’s lap. The other dog, Zoya, lies belly-up in her basket, fast asleep. As they walk in, Yelena is repeating a line of dialogue to her apparently slightly hard of hearing mother-in-law. Igor Pavlovich, sitting in one of the armchairs, is ignoring the program in favor of today’s issue of _Pravda_ , and having a smoke.

Both of the women turn and smile at Nina and Oleg when they walk in.

“The show’s just started,” Anna Andreyevna says. “We’ll catch you up. Or rather, Yelena will catch all of us up.”

“Papa, can I get a light?”

“Hmm? Oh, sure.”

Oleg lights his own cigarette and then plops down in the other armchair. Anna Andreyevna scooches to the side slightly to make room for Nina on the couch. Oleg glances at his father, smiles impishly at Nina, and pats his knee invitingly.

Feeling a bit schoolgirlish, but a bit rebellious as well, Nina goes ahead and sits on his lap, leaning back against his warm chest.

Igor Pavlovich’s eyebrows shoot upwards. He bites his lip, clearly weighing whether it’s worth saying anything.

“Um, Oleg...be respectful, please.”

“Oh, come on, dear, they’ve been separated for a long time,” Yelena coaxes. “Besides, they’re just cuddling.”

“Yes, they’re very innocent, that’s why I’m going to be a grandfather in a few months,” he grumbles.

Yelena gives him a stern look, and he disappears behind his newspaper.

Oleg smirks around his cigarette, pleased with himself. Nina crosses her legs neatly, trying to look demure, but feeling a small internal flash of triumph.

“Anyway,” Anna Andreyevna says loudly. “What do you kids think about Sherlock Holmes?”

Oleg’s mother and grandmother, at least, are welcoming. They talk mostly about the film, and exclaim over plot twists even though they’ve clearly seen it several times before. Nina hasn’t watched this particular installment in the series herself, since it was released the year before while she was in America. Still, she’s content to listen to their chatter overlap with the dialogue, letting it fill in the awkward spaces in the room, while she snuggles up close to Oleg.

Perhaps she shouldn’t throw herself at him just to spite his father, but she hasn’t entirely forgotten Igor Pavlovich’s resistance to helping her, and she senses Oleg hasn’t, either. Perhaps, given his clear hostility to their relationship, they feel the need to stake their claim on each other.

So Nina tucks her head under his shoulder and slips her arm around his waist, while Oleg casually plays with her hair. She feels a bit like one of the spaniels, curled up in his lap being petted and adored. She banishes the odd, stray thought, focusing instead on the gentle rise and fall of Oleg’s chest as he breaths, the way his soft woolen sweater feels against the skin of her cheek. She’s quiet, pensive, the conversation rippling around her; she almost could be part of the family.

Still, though, there’s always another culture shock. The _Sherlock Holmes_ series has been popular throughout the Soviet Union, but the Burovs’ commentary is a little different. Oleg mentions how pleased he is to see Nikita Mikhalkov acting again, even though his career behind the camera has taken off lately. Igor, inscrutable behind his newspaper but evidently listening, reminisces about attending the ceremony where the renowned poet Sergei Mikhalkov, Nikita’s father, had been awarded the Hero of Socialist Labor prize, and going out to a celebratory restaurant feast afterwards with a mixed crowd of artists and the Communist Party cadre. Oleg pouts, complaining that he wasn’t invited--Nina gets the sense that this is a grievance so often repeated that it has become half a joke. Yelena reminds him that he was busy in university at the time, and Nina feels Oleg shrug. 


	6. Chapter 6

The dinner bell rings at seven o’clock sharp, as promised. They do have an actual bell, apparently, its bright tones sounding out from the kitchen. Nina expects them to go to the fancy dining room with the big grand table she walked past on the way in through the parlor, but they don’t. Instead, there’s yet another dining room, this one smaller and more intimate, with an Armenian carpet and burgundy wallpaper. The table would seat six at most, and is set for five, with glossy white porcelain. The cutlery, thankfully, appear to be stainless steel, not real silver.

Oleg pulls out Nina’s chair for her, then hurries to do the same for his mother. Igor Pavlovich, meanwhile, helps his own mother into her seat.

Their china bowls of rassolnik are already waiting for them, with the half-full pot standing on a trivet in the center of the table, in case anybody wants seconds. There’s a basket of rye bread, a butter dish, and little bowls of dill and sour cream for the soup as well. Lidiya is nowhere to be seen--presumably back in the kitchen, preparing the next course, now that she’s got the table all prettied up for the family.

Feeling a bit uncomfortable, Nina waits, her back stiff. Helping the ladies into their chairs seems rather formal, and she wonders if Igor Pavlovich is going to give some kind of signal before they can start eating.

As soon as he’s seated, however, Oleg gets down to business, reaching for the sour cream and dumping a generous portion into his soup. Stifling a smile, Nina picks up her own spoon.

The soup is delicious, although, oddly enough, Nina finds herself missing the strong flavor of the organ meats her family cooks rassolnik with.

There’s not much conversation for a few minutes, as they’re all tucking into their meal. By the time Nina’s sopping up the last of her broth with a piece of bread, though, they’re all talking about Nikita Mikhalkov again.

“Did you see _A Slave of Love_ , Nina?” Oleg asks, offering to serve her more soup.

Nina nods.

“Yes, I did. And yes, I’d also like some more, thank you.”

“Did you like it? I love period drama, myself.”

Nina had personally thought it seemed rather ideologically convenient--no one is exactly surprised when the formerly apathetic heroine falls in love with both the handsome revolutionary and his Bolshevik cause. But Mikhalkov has to appeal to the Party, of course, and there’s no way she’s questioning that in front of this particular crowd.

“It was certainly exciting.”

“Oh, for sure! The scene on the train was phenomenal, I was practically shaking with the suspense.”

He frowns, looking down at his soup and apparently suddenly subdued.

“That was before I joined the KGB, of course. I don’t suppose revolutionary espionage seems quite so thrilling now. Especially not for you.”

Nina pats his hand.

“It’s just a movie. I’m not hurt or anything.”

Remembering the plot of the movie just now, she hadn’t made any connection between herself and the beautiful, high-strung accidental-spy heroine. It all seems very fictionalized, very remote. She remembers fighting with Stan about the portrayal of women in the film he’d rented for the two of them, and feels a rush of gratitude for Oleg. At least he cares about her feelings, even if he thinks she’s more fragile right now than she is. She has good reason to be fragile, anyway, and she’d rather have affectionate, somewhat overly solicitous Oleg than a man who finds her offense bemusing.

Oleg squeezes her hand back and smiles at her, looking relieved.

“Well, for a less thematically pressing film, I quite liked _Oblomov_ as well,” Yelena says smoothly, recentering the conversation. “I thought it was a good adaptation of the book. Have you read much of our classic literature, Nina?”

“Yes, but I prefer plays to novels, I think. Chekhov is particularly engaging--his stories as well, they’re so sharply defined, every detail in its place.”

Nina had thought about studying literature at university, but had gone for a degree in English language instead--the job prospects were much better. Perhaps, in this new world, she might be able to devote some of her time to more imaginative pursuits.

“I didn’t much care for _Oblomov_ ,” Oleg announces. “Beautifully filmed, of course, but it’s just rather boring, isn’t it? He’s just a spoiled nobleman going about life aimlessly, with no passion for anything.”

“But it’s meant to be satirical,” Yelena says earnestly. “A critique of the stagnation of things, before the revolution.”

Oleg sniffs. “I suppose so. But it was so frustrating to watch him dither around for literal hours.”

“Always on the move, our Oleg,” Anna Andreyevna teases gently. “Never a dull moment with you.”

He grins.

“It’s true!”

By this time they’ve all emptied their bowls, and Lidiya comes into the dining room with a tray to clear the table. A minute later, she’s out again with the plates for their main course.

Thin slices of well-done steak fan out along the white expanse of Nina’s plate, accompanied by a fluffy peak of whipped potatoes and a pile of golden caramelized onions. The Burovs have wine at dinner, apparently, and Lidiya pours a Georgian red, skipping over Nina because she’s pregnant.

It’s like eating in a fancy American restaurant, she muses--being waited on at the table, the neatly arranged plates and crystal glasses.

She’s never been to a fancy American restaurant, actually. Stan had waxed lyrical about wanting to take her out to one, but had worried that her KGB employers would see her in his company. That wasn’t an issue, of course, but Nina had to keep her cover. Oleg could afford fine dining, of course, but they hadn’t been able to go out to eat either, for basically the same reason. They’d had champagne and lobster from room service at the Ritz the first night they’d slept together, and several times they’d picked up late-night takeout dumplings and cashew chicken from a place in Chinatown Oleg liked.

The only time Nina’s actually been to a sit-down restaurant was when she was in college, to celebrate her parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary. They’d gone to the Georgian restaurant in Kazan, in search of the spices Nina’s mother missed. The service was slow, and the waiter rather rude, but the food had been delicious.

Still, though, this is a virtually new experience for her, and she can’t imagine eating like this every day. She nervously thanks Lidiya when the cook puts her plate down in front of her, unsure whether it’s appropriate to acknowledge her but convinced that she ought to. The Burovs all smile at Lidiya as well, or offer a curt nod in Igor Pavlovich’s case. Nina’s relieved they don’t treat her like furniture, like the stereotype of pre-revolutionary aristocracy, and she seems very close to Oleg from what Nina saw earlier in the kitchen. Still, though, when and where does Lidiya have her dinner, and does she, too, eat steak?

Nina doesn’t want to make a fuss, and she’s much too practiced at playing nice to accuse anyone of hypocrisy--certainly not her future father-in-law. But she can’t imagine how Comrade Minister Burov can preach communism and live in luxury without, apparently, a flicker of self-consciousness. Perhaps he’s just the corrupt, colorless bureaucrat he seems, perfectly content to enjoy all of his contradictory privileges--yet Oleg had to have picked up his ideals from somewhere.

While they all munch their steak, the Burovs talk about their week, like anyone would on a Friday night. Anna Andreyevna makes lace, apparently, and is finishing up a new project. Nina remembers having seen a lace runner on the mantelpiece in the family room. She compliments the handiwork, and Oleg’s grandmother beams at her. Perhaps she might make a little cap for the baby? Nina smiles shyly and murmurs a thank you.

Igor Pavlovich holds forth about railway repairs and supervising the de-icing of tracks, but Nina gets the sense that the family had heard all of this before, and is a little bit bored. Oleg interjects some excitable chatter about his new job, references a project he worked on when he was getting his master’s degree.

Listening to them talk, the small, angry part of Nina that is determined to make trouble rears its head again, unbidden. She thinks about the last months she’s spent lying on her hard prison bed, staring at the sloping ceiling and waiting for her half hour in the exercise yard, for her five minutes in the cold shower, for her mediocre supper. Ticking down the days towards a salvation that might never come. She wonders how long it will take her to feel safe here--to feel like she belongs. In the comfort of the Burovs’ plush little family dining room, it’s hard for her to make polite conversation. Even with the bright, cozy lights and the soft carpet and her full belly, she still feels as if the walls could close in on her at any moment.

She stands up from the table abruptly, her fork clattering as she pushes it aside. Sitting across from her, Yelena looks a little taken aback.

“Excuse me, I need to wash my hands.”

“Down the hall, first on the right,” Oleg says cheerfully.

The moment the door to the dining room swings shut, Nina practically sprints towards the bathroom. She hastily locks herself in, then stares half-blindly into the mirror, hands braced on either side of the sink, tears in her eyes. She’s starting to hyperventilate.

“Stupid,” she mutters under her breath. “You’re okay now.”

It doesn’t help.

She sits down on top of the toilet seat, staring wildly around her. There’s lacework framed and hanging on the walls--maybe more of Anna Andreyevna’s work, all concentric circles of delicate flowers. Nina follows the patterns, trying to calm herself down.

Her fingers tremble and flutter, clutching the edge of the toilet. Nina bites her lip, struggling to keep from sobbing.

She feels like she’s torn between so many worlds at once, and so many lives. She has her own past before she joined the KGB, and suddenly she desperately misses her family. Then, there’s the stifled, frightening world of the prison, experiences that are still deeply ingrained in her psyche. There’s the lingering after-effects of her time in America, of the Rezidentura, of Stan. Here, in Oleg’s cushy childhood home, lost among the Soviet elite, she feels once more like an interloper. In some ways, she’s still a double agent, playing roles she’s not quite used to.

Somehow, she’ll have to weave all these disparate threads together, to build a new life and a new family, for herself and for Oleg and for their baby. It’s not, of course, like Oleg won’t help. He’s done nothing but support her, but there are some things he just can’t understand. He wasn’t trapped in a concrete cell for two months--he didn’t have to entangle himself with Stan and play both sides of the war--and he’s always lived like this.

Feeling lonely and rather maudlin, Nina sniffles and stares down at her feet, absently rubbing her stomach. It’s still too early for the baby to move, but she still feels the sense of it there, the shift in her core as her body changes.

After a few minutes, someone--Oleg, come to check on her?--knocks on the door. Nina starts, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her blouse.

“I’m all right,” she calls hurriedly. “Coming out in a bit.”

She splashes water on her face and adjusts her skirt anxiously, trying to look presentable. She doesn’t want Oleg or his family to know she’s upset.

When she opens the bathroom door, she’s surprised to see Yelena.

Nina opens her mouth, then closes it, unsure what to say. She has a feeling Yelena isn’t here because she needs to use the bathroom either.

“You’ve been crying,” Yelena says softly.

Nina shakes her head wordlessly, feeling her cheeks flame.

“It’s all right, Nina. I thought you might—when you left the table, you looked upset.”

“I don’t—did anyone else notice?” Nina asks, her voice tinged with desperation. “I don’t want Oleg to think I’m not happy to be here. I am happy to be here.”

“Oleg knows you’re happy with him.”

Yelena gives her a sad, sympathetic smile.

“But I know it’ll be hard for you to adjust, no matter how much he loves you.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Nina blurts. She’s embarrassed by her snippiness, but also by Yelena presuming she understands her situation.

Yelena draws back, flinching slightly.

“I’m sorry,” she says evenly. “You’re right. I barely know you.”

She moves away from Nina, studiously examining the wallpaper like she’s never seen it before. Like this house is just as new to her as to Nina.

“I do—I know what you must feel, though, better than you would think.”

“Is that so?”

“I may not have been a spy, but I was in a labor camp, many years ago. I know what it’s like to feel like the world’s suddenly opened up for you, and you don’t quite know how to handle it.”

Nina’s eyes widen in shock. She doesn’t know whether to apologize or to disbelieve her.

“What?”

“Young people, like you and Oleg, you don’t know what it was like back then,” Yelena continues, still avoiding Nina’s eyes.

“During the war, half the country wasn’t eating enough, and prisoners got fed last. In the gulag, we were dying like flies. I went into the camps in 1941, for five years. People talked about the war, of course, but it didn’t feel real—we were in our own hell. I used to wonder, if the Germans took over, would they let us out? That sounds idiotic now, of course, not to mention treasonous, but I was barely more than a child, and I didn’t know any better.”

Her hands tremble slightly, but she clenches her fists.

“People talk about political prisoners, mostly when they talk about the camps under Stalin—the innocents, the dissidents. And there were so many of them, too. My father was accused of espionage in 1938 and shot, with no evidence. After that, my family had nothing. If you were the relative of an enemy of the state, you were less than a person. No one would hire my mother. I wasn’t allowed to join Komsomol, and other kids from my school would cross the street to avoid walking with me. I had four younger siblings. When I was sixteen, I decided I’d had enough. My cousin Vanya and I, we broke the window of the state-run grocery store late one night and stole everything we could get our hands on. I remember carrying this enormous smoked ham down the street.

We weren’t careful enough, though. Our neighbors found out we had more food than we should have had, and informed on us. I told the police what I did so they wouldn’t blame my mother. In two weeks, Vanya and I were in a labor camp. I’m like you, I suppose. I committed my crime, but that doesn’t mean what happened to me was just. Or what happened to you.”

Nina stares at her, open-mouthed. Her own situation seems less bizarre now, if Yelena could go from a starved teenager in the gulag to the pampered wife of a high-ranking government official.

“Does...does your husband know about this?”

Of course, he _must_ , yet from what Nina’s experienced of Igor Pavlovich, this marriage seems incredibly uncharacteristic. She can’t quite fit the pieces together in her mind—the young, ambitious army officer, fresh from the war and ready to claw his way up the Party hierarchy—and then Yelena, straight out of the gulag? Of course, there’s always passion. But Nina would never have described Oleg’s father as passionate.

Yelena lets out a small, choked laugh.

“Yes, he does. He didn’t until after we were engaged. I went back home to Perm to live with my mother and my sisters—both my brothers were killed in the war, but I didn’t know until after I was released. I was going to night classes, trying to get my diploma, since I’d had to leave school when I was arrested. One of the other girls in my class was dating a friend of Igor’s, and she introduced us. He’d been sent to Perm as assistant to the Party chief there—Igor had trained as an officer with his son. After Igor asked me to marry him, the Party boss looked up my records and found out about me, and my father. Igor was very angry at first, because I had kept it secret. He wouldn’t speak to me for a week, and I thought I’d never see him again. But he came back.”

She smiles faintly, looking Nina in the eye for the first time since she started her story.

“We had to put off the marriage, because his boss would have disapproved. We had to sneak around, and wait for a year, until Igor got promoted—he became head of industry for Sverdlovsk Oblast, so we moved to Sverdlovsk and got married. That was 1949. We had Pavel a year later, and Oleg in 1952.”

Nina blinks.

“Wait, does _Oleg_ know?”

Yelena shakes her head slowly.

“He knows a little about what happened to his grandfather, but we’ve never told him or Pasha anything about how I was in the camps too. I suppose we don’t much like to talk about unpleasant things, in this family. Oleg is...very sheltered. It’s natural, as a parent, to want your children to have everything you didn’t. You’ll understand when you have your own little one, if you don’t already. Neither of my sons have ever wanted for anything. They’ve never gone hungry, and they’ve never had to worry about whether their father will come home from work or end up dead.”

She bites her lip, frowning.

“Igor says I baby Oleg. I suppose perhaps I do. With Pasha being in the army, I feel like I need to keep Oleg safe. We’ve always been very close, you know. He was such a sweet, happy little boy—I wanted to keep him that way. But you can’t stop the world from getting in. Losing you would have destroyed him, and the thought of you being in pain made him suffer too.”

This whole situation is making Nina’s head spin. The idea of keeping such a huge secret from her own child is mind-bogglingly dysfunctional, yet understandable. No one wants their loved ones to experience shame or suffering, even if it’s their own, passed down. Oleg’s grown up in peace and comfort, and Yelena has been able to give him that, even if it means keeping years of her life hidden—years which have doubtless shaped her. She doesn’t know whether this makes Oleg’s apparently blissful childhood a lie, or a gift.

“Why did you tell me this, if you don’t even want Oleg to know? Like you said, you barely know me.”

“I suppose I thought you would understand. And it might help you feel less alone. Maybe you might even feel more positively towards my husband. Igor is very set in his ways now, and he can be quite harsh. But the man I married hasn’t changed that much, I don’t think. Perhaps he can extend the same understanding to you that he did to me, a long time ago.”

Nina slumps against the wall.

“I think he hates me.”

She doesn’t particularly care for him, either.

“He doesn’t hate you.” Yelena says carefully. “He doesn’t trust you, but he doesn’t know you well enough to hate you. Igor has…a tendency to second-guess Oleg’s decisions.”

Nina shrugs.

“Well, stealing a ham is different from committing treason, isn’t it? I’m surprised even you want me marrying your son.”

Yelena winces.

“It is different, yes. But Oleg loves you, and there are extenuating circumstances.”

She smiles at Nina, her tone brightening.

“He asked you to marry him, then?”

Nina can’t help but smile too.

“Yes. I said yes.”

“Of course you did,” Yelena says. “My son is a very good catch.”

Nina starts, wondering if there’s a hostile meaning behind her words. But Yelena is still smiling, and her tone is merely that of a proud mother.

“He is,” Nina says, a little shy, thinking of all the reasons she likes Oleg, several of which she would never mention in front of his mother. “I’m very grateful to have him.”

“He’ll be wondering where we are. And so will Igor and my mother-in-law. Are you ready to head back in for dessert?”

Nina nods, determined. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yelena’s backstory here may be a little different from in show canon—I haven’t watched the later episodes, but I was inspired to have this in my fic from the wiki entry, I just reinterpreted it to suit my own story. I hope you liked this chapter! Please leave a review :)


	7. Chapter 7

Back in the dining room, Nina notices a flash of relief in Oleg’s eyes when he sees them enter, coupled with a glimmer of confusion, or perhaps anxiety. He might guess, she thinks, that she and his mother had been having a serious conversation. But he pushes whatever thoughts he has aside, and effects cheerfulness, or even cluelessness.

“I thought I’d go stir-crazy waiting for you to come back so I could have my syrniki!”

“You poor little thing,” Nina teases, mirroring his affectionate, playful tone.

She’s quite excited too—the plump little cheese pancakes are hot, sweet, and familiar to every former Soviet schoolchild. Lidiya’s clearly fried them up fresh while the family ate their main course, because they’re warm to the touch and still crisp and gleaming from the buttery frying pan.

Liberally smeared with raspberry jam, they’re delicious. Nina feels rather overfed, especially since Oleg keeps fussing over her and putting more syrniki onto her plate, or offering honey and lemon for her tea. Even with Igor Pavlovich’s intervention, the food at Lefortovo was extremely mediocre, and the portions often scanty. Being able to eat as much as she likes is nice, and she doesn’t have to feel guilty about indulging herself, because she’s also caring for the baby.

Since she’s so full, and feeling calmer than earlier, she’s beginning to get sleepy, even though it can’t be more than half past eight. She still wants to talk to her family, though.

When Lidiya clears away their dessert plates, everyone gets up, and Yelena suggests retiring to the family room.

“I was going to call my parents after supper,” Nina says. “Oleg said I could.”

“Oh, of course.” She hesitates. “I don’t want you to think we’ve forgotten about your family. Igor thought about calling them from his office to inform them of your release, but we decided everything might be a bit less of a shock coming from you.”

Nina’s eyes widen reflexively as she contemplates the rather horrifying prospect of her parents receiving an official telephone call from the Minister of Railways regarding her pregnancy.

“Thank you,” she says earnestly. “I would _much_ rather tell them myself.”

“There’s a telephone in your bedroom,” Oleg announces. “I don’t know if you saw it earlier.”

“Yes, I did.”

Nina remembers it sitting on the bedside table, next to the pretty lamp with the swan-shaped porcelain base.

“I’ll walk you upstairs again, if you like,” Oleg adds. “But you’ll probably want privacy for your call. I’ll just lurk outside in the hallway in case your parents want to talk to me too. You can just shout if you need me.”

Nina giggles a bit at the idea, but she is glad for the privacy. It’s not as if she’s going to insult Oleg to her parents, but she’d rather not have to censor herself.

She turns to the rest of the family.

“I’ll probably go to bed after I call home, so, um, good night, everyone. Dinner was lovely.”

“Good night, Nina!” Anna Andreyevna calls happily. “See you in the morning.”

Yelena nods and smiles, and Igor Pavlovich just nods.

Even though she still finds the Burovs’ house huge and overwhelming, she’s able to pick her way through the rooms, up the stairs, and to her bedroom door, without Oleg interceding with directions. He just follows her upstairs, and hovers on the threshold of the door.

“I hope everything goes okay,” he says, a bit nervously. “Before you go in—are you going to tell them you’re pregnant tonight too? I don’t know your parents. Do you think they’ll be upset? My father wasn’t exactly thrilled with me being irresponsible, as he put it.”

Nina frowns.

“I don’t think they’ll judge me or anything—I mean, my parents got married when my mother was pregnant with me, so it would be kind of hypocritical. But it’s a lot of news to take in, for sure. I didn’t tell them I was seeing anyone—you, or Stan.”

Oleg winces slightly at the mention of Stan. It’s the first time either of them have said his name aloud.

“Not that it was the same kind of relationship at all,” Nina says hurriedly. “And I’m not going to tell them _anything_ about Stan. Only you. But they might be a bit shocked at everything, certainly.”

Oleg nods, wrinkling his nose in thought.

“Well, I hope it goes well. If not—I’m right here.”

Nina leans up and kisses him on the cheek.

“You are so sweet.”

“I try.”

She squeezes his arm, smiles nervously, and then heads into the bedroom, shutting the door.

Sitting on the bed, she leans back against fluffy pillows, carefully spinning the dial. There’s one phone in the living room of their communal apartment, shared by all four families. She hopes no one is using it already tonight, or she’ll have to wait to get through.

When she presses the receiver to her ear, she can hear the phone ringing, not the blaring tone that signals a busy line. Thanking her luck, she waits.

“Hello? Who is this?”

Nina smiles involuntarily, recognizing the voice.

“Dinara Vladimirovna! It’s me, Nina! Nina Krilova.”

Dinara Vladimirovna and her husband, Stepan Alexandrovich, are an elderly couple who live in the room next to Nina’s family. She is Tatar, he is Russian, and they have four grown daughters, none of whom live in Kazan, a source of great strife to them.

“Nina! Oh, I didn’t think it would be you. The operator said the call was from Moscow, and I thought you were still in America. Your _poor_ mama. At least none of my girls went all the way to America. Are you coming home to visit?”

Nina frowns. She wonders when, if ever, her parents were planning on telling people she was in prison. They would have had to, surely, sometime? She feels a brief flash of shame, for putting them in this position. For making them worry about whether their neighbors would judge them, or Nina.

“I don’t know yet,” she says honestly. “Dinara Vladimirovna, can you get my parents to the phone? I have some big news.”

There’s an audible, excited gasp over the phone line. Suddenly, Nina is sure that Dinara Vladimirovna, Stepan Alexandrovich, and probably half of the other people in the apartment will be lurking in the common room, trying to listen in on the Kazan half of the conversation.

There’s nothing she can do about that, though. So she waits, listening to the faint yelling in the background as her parents are summoned to the telephone.

“Bye, Nina! See you soon, I hope.”

“Nina?”

Unexpectedly, tears well up in her eyes when she hears her father’s voice on the phone.

“Hello, Papa.”

“Nina, what’s going on? Why are you...calling us from Moscow?”

 _Why are you out of prison?,_ he means, of course, but surely the neighbors are listening in.

“A lot of things have been happening since you came to visit me,” Nina says. “Is Mama there too?”

“She’s right next to me. We can’t both hold the phone at once, but she can sort of hear what you’re saying, can’t you, Jayanthi?”

“Yes, I can hear.” It’s her mother’s voice, muffled in the background.

“I can hear you too, Mama.”

“So what happened? Are you, um, leaving your job?”

“Yes, I’ve been released from Lefortovo.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath.

“How on earth—”

“It’s a long story, but I’ll try to tell it properly.”

Mentally, Nina is already scanning her memories for anything she’ll have to leave out.

“Do you remember me talking about Oleg Burov?”

“Who?”

“The science and technology officer. His father is Minister of Railways?”

“Oh, yes, you complained about him after he arrived.”

Nina grimaces.

“Well, first impressions aren’t always accurate, I suppose. He was coaching me a lot when I was undercover as a double agent—how to cheat a lie detector, how to understand Americans—things like that. We, um, we started seeing each other. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but it was pretty casual at first, and then everything got very serious really quickly and I didn’t quite know how to explain everything.”

“So how did that...did he get you out of pr—out of there?”

“Sort of. I mean, Oleg’s father did. He’s friends with General Secretary Andropov, apparently. That’s how Oleg got the job at the KGB.”

There’s a long pause.

Her father lets out an incredulous whistle.

“They can do that? He just made everything go away because his son was messing around with you? Not that I’m not glad you’re out, just— _shit_.”

Nina feels like her face is burning.

“We, um, weren’t just messing around. I’m pregnant.”

“ _What_?”

There’s a muffled thump.

“You’re pregnant?”

It’s her mother’s voice this time.

“Jayanthi, give the phone back!”

“Nina, did I hear that right?”

“Yes.”

Nina nervously twists the phone cord around her finger.

“I’m due at the end of May. I didn’t know—not until I was already in prison.”

“This young man—Oleg?”

“Yes, his name is Oleg.”

“Yes, anyway—he didn’t try to get you out until he heard you were having his baby? It’s been _months_. Does he care about you at all?”

“Mama, no! It’s not like that. He’s not like that. Oleg’s been worried sick about me, he’s been trying so hard to get me released, ever since I was arrested. He tried everything, I’m sure. It’s just Igor Pavlovich—Oleg’s father—he wouldn’t do anything until _he_ heard about the baby.”

Nina’s mother makes a tsking noise.

“Important people are like that, I suppose. Other people don’t matter until it hits close to home.”

Nina bites her lip, but she doesn’t particularly care about defending Igor Pavlovich.

“What is your situation going to be like with the baby? I imagine they’ll have offered financial support, and not just pulled you out of there and dumped you on the street. I hope so, anyway. But does he want to be involved with his child? Is he going to stay in America?”

“Mama, please! Don’t assume the worst of everyone. Oleg wants to marry me. He came back to Moscow earlier this week, he’s got a job here already—he’s going to be working for his father. I’m at his parents’ house right now—they’ve got me in one of the guest bedrooms, we had dinner together, they’ve mostly been very kind to me.”

“He wants to marry you?”

Her mother still sounds suspicious.

“Come on, Jayanthi, I think that speaks well of him. He wants to provide for her.”

Nina smiles slightly at her father’s defense of Oleg.

“Well, I’m sure _that_ won’t be difficult for him. I just worry—this is all so fast. Marriage and a baby are big steps, especially all at once. I mean, we’ve been there, Nina. But your father and I had been together for two years when we found out we were expecting you, so getting married seemed reasonable. You’ve known Oleg for what, six months?”

“We’re not getting married right away,” Nina explains. “Oleg and I want to wait until we’ve settled into the situation.”

“Do you _want_ to get married? Or to have a child? I don’t want you to feel like you owe him, or like you have to keep the baby because it’s leverage against getting hurt.”

Nina sighs.

“If I hadn’t been arrested, I don’t know what I would have wanted—but now I think I do. Everything has been so awful this last year. Being undercover was so frightening, and my nerves were always on edge. And then being in prison was worse. I want stability, I want to be comfortable, I want things to be happy and peaceful.”

She can feel her voice catch in her throat, and her eyes start to prickle with tears.

“I want someone to take care of me. Is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, Nina, it isn’t. It really isn’t. We’re just not sure if this young man is right for you. I’m sure—”

She pauses for a moment, then continues delicately.

“I’m sure he’s been very nice, but the two of you come from such different backgrounds. It was difficult for me to adjust to immigrating, and to becoming part of your father’s family. You and Oleg—you might be from the same country, but he might as well be from a different culture. I don’t want you to settle for someone you wouldn’t notice if he didn’t have money. Not that you’re shallow, or anything, of course. It’s just that I’m sure life with him looks very easy. But it might not be.”

“I’m not naive, Mama. Even just today—it’s going to be hard for me, being part of this family. But I’m not an inexperienced kid, I’m going to be twenty-five in January, and I like Oleg better than any other boyfriend I’ve had.”

“Well—I am glad to hear that, certainly.”

Her mother still sounds a bit stiff, but perhaps she’s warming to the idea.

Nina hears her father clear his throat.

“Are we going to be able to meet him? I think that would put your mother and I more at ease with the whole situation. We could try to come up to Moscow again, or you could come down to Kazan for a weekend if you’re feeling up to traveling. I’m sure Oleg could afford a hotel room so you wouldn’t have to crash on our floor.”

Nina smiles, thinking of being home, even for a brief visit.

“I’d like that, I think. Even if I’m sure everyone we know would hound me with questions about America, and Oleg, and the baby, and everything. It will be hard to keep my story straight.”

“We’re not ashamed of you, you know that, right?”

Her father sounds anxious.

“Not because of the baby, or—anything else, you know?”

“I know, Papa. I love you.”

“If Oleg is half as good a father as yours, your child will be very lucky.”

“Ah, Jayanthi, please.”

“She’s right, Papa. But I think he’ll be good with our baby. Oleg is a very caring person, and he’s _so_ excited.”

Nina pauses, deliberating for a moment.

“He’s been outside my bedroom while I talk to you, waiting up for me. If you want—I can call him in here, to introduce you. If you would like that.”

“I think that would be good, actually.”

“Okay, Mama. Hold on a second.”

Nina places the telephone carefully on her pillow, receiver pointing towards the ceiling. She hurries to open the door.

“Oleg?”

He’s leaning against the wall outside in the hallway, and starts when she calls his name, looking a bit anxious.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, don’t worry. My parents just want to talk to you.”

“Oh, now I _am_ worried. How’s it going? Are they, um, are they mad at me for getting you pregnant or anything?”

“No, not really, and they’re very happy you got me out of prison. My mother—she just doesn’t quite trust you yet, which is why I want her to talk to you. My father seems pretty open, though.”

Oleg laughs nervously, fingers drumming against his thigh.

“Well, that’s a start. Alright! I’m ready to be interrogated. Let’s go.”

He follows Nina gamely back into the bedroom. As she picks up the telephone again, he pauses.

“Wait, what’s your father’s patronymic? I want to make a good impression.”

“Serafimovich. Sergei Serafimovich.”

“Such an old-fashioned name. You don’t see too many young men named Serafim nowadays, do you? What about your mother? Has she even got a patronymic?”

“Well, my grandfather’s name was Dinesh, but it doesn’t really work like that, no. Her given name’s Jayanthi, but you shouldn’t call her that unless she asks you to. Go for Comrade Krilova, she’ll appreciate that, I think.”

“Okay, Comrade Nina.”

Oleg flashes her a cheeky grin, then takes a deep breath and reaches for the telephone.

“Hello? Sergei Serafimovich? This is Oleg Burov. Nina’s fiancé. Yes. Hello. Nice to meet you. Well, nice to speak with you, anyway. We’re not meeting in person. I would like to come to Kazan though. And meet you for real.”

He grimaces at Nina, covering the telephone receiver.

“I’m a disaster,” he stage-whispers.

“You’re doing fine, Oleg,” Nina reassures him, giggling. “Just stay calm.”

“Okay! Yes,” he says, talking directly into the phone again now. “So, Nina says you work in aircraft production? My degree is in military engineering! And we both played hockey, apparently. I’m sure we’ll have lots to talk about.”

“Wow, laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?”

Oleg glares at her, putting a finger to his lips in a shushing gesture. Nina laughs and hops up on the bed next to him.

They chat, her parents and Oleg, for about fifteen minutes. He’s all enthusiasm, verging sometimes on blathering, but he’s definitely charming, in a sheepish kind of way.

After a while, the conversation winds to a close, and he turns to Nina.

“Want to say goodnight?”

Nina yawns.

“Definitely.”

She leans across his lap to take the phone.

“Mama? Papa? It’s me again.”

She can hear her father chuckling.

“You’ve certainly got yourself a talker, Nina. You won’t ever be bored.”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“He’s...different from what I expected,” her mother muses. “I suppose I pictured someone more formal—stiffer. I’ve never met a bureaucrat this cheerful.”

“You were picturing someone more like my future father-in-law, I think,” Nina comments.

Oleg raises his eyebrows at the mention of his father, but doesn’t react otherwise.

“I don’t know, I haven’t met the minister. What’s he like?”

“Stiff, formal, and bureaucratic.”

She glances at Oleg, suddenly worried he’ll be defensive of his father, or perceive her comments as overly critical. He’s looking away from her, playing with the curly telephone cord. She feels a flash of guilt.

“Oleg must take after his mother, then.”

“I believe he does. Yelena has been very welcoming to me.”

Oleg looks over at her now, and half-smiles.

Nina finds herself yawning again.

“Well, I’m desperately tired. It’s been a long day. I love you. Thank you for being so understanding about Oleg, about everything.”

“I’m still not sure about things,” her mother confides, “but you might be happier with your young man than I thought.”

“I’m very happy, Mama. I promise.”

“Good night! We love you.”

“Good night.”

She puts the phone down.

“You mean that? You’re happy with me?”

Nina kisses Oleg’s cheek, then moves down to nuzzle his neck.

“Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You don’t think I’m a spoiled brat?”

“Oleg, what?”

“I went to go confront Stan—I thought he should know you were getting out, but I also wanted to rub things in a little bit, I guess. I didn’t pull a gun on him this time, but things got pretty heated, and he told me you told him I was a spoiled little brat.”

“Oleg, hold on. You pulled a _gun_ on Stan?”

“Right after you got arrested. He betrayed you! He told me to go ahead and shoot if I was brave enough. I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t want you to kill anyone over me! I mean, I’m flattered you wanted to defend me, but I’m glad you didn’t shoot Stan!”

Nina wraps her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“You’re soft. You’re not a killer. You’re sweet, and loving, and you want to look after me. I like that. I want you to stay like that, okay?”

Oleg nods hesitantly.

“Okay. But...did you tell him that about me? I know it was a long time ago, I just—it made me feel weird.”

“Oleg. Look at me, please.”

They stare at each other, nose to nose.

“I honestly don’t remember whether I told him that. When I first met you, I found you quite frustrating. Oleg, I love you, but you are a little spoiled. More than a little.”

He blinks.

“Nina—”

“Shush. You are a very kind person, and you’re brave, and clever, and funny—and you are also extremely spoiled. I don’t see any sense in ignoring that. But I don’t think you are a brat. Not anymore, anyway.”

Oleg nods slowly.

“Alright. That’s fair, I guess.”

He lifts her chin to kiss her.

“I missed you so much, Nina. I would have done anything to get you back, you know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Even if it meant I’d never see you again—it wasn’t just that I wanted you all to myself or anything. I’m just so glad you’re safe. Glad I can keep you safe.”

“I’m glad I’m with you. It’s strange, and very sudden, but you’re the best thing I could have, I think.”

They share a smile, and Nina takes a moment to luxuriate in his affection, cuddled up under his arm. Then, she’s forced to yawn again, and he pulls away a little bit.

“You must be so tired, it’s well past nine.”

“I got used to sleeping half the time in prison,” Nina confesses. “There wasn’t much else to do.”

“Of course. I’ll head to my own room and you can get some privacy to brush your teeth and put on your pajamas and stuff.”

He stands up from her bed, smoothing his rumpled sweater.

“Can I borrow the book I was reading earlier? I’m not quite ready to fall asleep yet, and it looked good.”

“Oh, of course, sure. Good night, Oleg. I love you.”

He kisses her again on his way out the door.

“Love you too.”

Nina’s expecting to fall asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow, but she’s disappointed. She’s used to the lumpy, narrow mattress at Lefortovo, so thin she can feel the wooden boards of the bed frame underneath. This bed is wide and plush, with a soft mattress and fluffy feather pillows. Nina tosses and turns, feeling like she’s being smothered in a cloud. She seriously considers getting out to sleep on the floor, but she finally manages to drift off.

Her dreams are troubled—flashes of the empty Rezidentura. She wanders through, calling out for Arkady, for Oleg, for poor Vlad Kosygin. She can hear typewriter keys clicking inside the walls, but no one answers.

Oleg and Stan stand in the courtyard at Lefortovo, pistols drawn, ten paces apart, like a duel scene from Pushkin. Someone fires—she can’t tell who—and strikes her instead. She’s hit in the chest, winded, but the blood comes from between her legs.

Nina wakes up gasping, tangled in damp sheets. For a moment, she’s terrified it’s blood again and she’s losing the baby, but when she hurriedly turns the lamp on, she can see it’s just sweat.

The clock on her nightstand ticks accusingly at her—it’s just after two in the morning. She struggles to catch her breath, finding the prospect of spending the rest of the night alone and frightened in that bed daunting. After a few minutes, she gets up and pads cautiously to the door.

She knows Oleg’s room is the next one down the hallway, but she still hesitates at the threshold, worried she’s gotten mixed up, or that he’ll have locked it.

Nina tries the door, and it swings open easily.

Despite herself, she almost laughs. The first thing she sees, illuminated by a shaft of moonlight from one of the big windows, is an old propaganda poster of Yuri Gagarin pasted up on the wall, with a now-faded red rocket looming in the background. Her first boyfriend, in high school, also had a poster of the first man in space hanging up over his bed.

She imagines a younger Oleg, gleefully watching news coverage of Gagarin’s flight on television, and plastering his hero’s face up on his wall. Oleg’s childhood bedroom may be about the size of her ex-boyfriend’s family’s whole apartment, but the poster is a reminder of what he has in common with her, with their people—what they don’t share with the Americans.

She walks further into Oleg’s room, bare feet muffled in the soft striped carpet. There’s an overstuffed bookshelf and a record player next to it, and a cluster of model airplanes on the dresser. It mostly looks like a teenager’s room—Oleg must have stopped living here permanently when he went to college—but she notices a worn stuffed dog sitting on a chair in the corner, standing guard.

She heads cautiously for the bed, a big wooden four-poster, with a patchwork quilt. She wonders if this, too, is Oleg’s grandmother’s handiwork. Oleg is sprawled across the bed on his stomach, on top of the covers, shirtless in his boxers. When they were together in America, he often slept naked, but apparently that is too much for his parents’ house.

Nina climbs up on the bed, curls up cautiously next to Oleg, and nudges him.

He makes a little grunting noise and rolls away from her. Nina prods him again.

“Oleg. Wake up, please.”

“Huh?”

He blinks, rubbing his eyes.

“Hi, Nina,” he says fuzzily. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t sleep. I had a bad dream.”

He sits up.

“Are you alright? Do you need anything? What can I do?”

“I just need you. I don’t want to sleep alone.”

He hugs her, rather fiercely.

“Yes, of course. You can stay as long as you want. Until morning. And tomorrow night, too.”

They settle in together, with his long, lean body curled around hers protectively. She can feel the warmth of his bare chest through the thin fabric of her nightgown, feel the steady beat of his heart. His arms, his legs wrap around her, and he nestles his face up against her neck.

This, then, is perhaps what she has missed most. The intimacy of his touch, the sensation of belonging. This new life may be a rough adjustment, but nothing can take him away from her now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap! I hope I’ve accomplished a full, fulfilling story—I planned on showing how Nina’s situation could be saved from prison and establishing them in their future life, but I may add on additional installments skipping ahead and showing Nina later in her pregnancy or after the baby is born. Thank you for reading!


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